


The Conscience of the King

by onvavoir



Category: Black Panther (2018), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Assassination Plot(s), Awkward Crush, BAMF T'Challa (Marvel), Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon May Joss This, Complete, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Slow Burn, Sparring, Wakanda, Wakanda Does Not Need Help From White People
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 11:42:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 56,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7220932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onvavoir/pseuds/onvavoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight months after Siberia, Wakandan scientists have put the finishing touches on a counterconditioning regimen for Bucky-- not to mention a new arm. With Steve and Sam in Sicily on a mission, Bucky and T'Challa get the opportunity to get to know each other. </p><p>T'Challa copes with the diplomatic challenges of harboring international fugitives, and Bucky starts to recover from being a living weapon. Both of them realise that their new relationship is becoming something they didn't expect.</p><p>Many thanks to my betas <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/captainafroelf">captainafroelf</a>/<a href="http://afroelf.tumblr.com/">afro-elf</a> and <a href="http://classytragedy.tumblr.com/">classytragedy</a> for reading through 50k words of this nonsense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Methinks I see my father

It's late in the afternoon when the _kimoyo_ band on T'Challa's wrist beeps. He flicks his wrist to read the message as he walks, the beads clicking faintly against each other.

> Subject will wake soon. 20-30 mins.

He nods. Nakia and Okoye join him as he leaves the room, striding silently beside him. Some days they talk, either about state matters or about things of no importance at all. Today is not one of those days. He is debating whether to simply eat dinner at his desk before his conference call with the Prime Minister. Ramonda will be displeased, but he is in no mood for company, much less dinner with the entire family. More than anything, he wants to be alone. To have a moment to think.

Around a corner towards his chambers, someone jumps at him. The Dora Milaje seize the man in a fraction of a second, twist his arm behind his back and drag a whine of pain from him. It's Mosi, one of his father's friends and a member of his cabinet. Mosi had claimed to retire when T'Challa took the throne, but somehow he always seems to be present. And always a harbinger of ill.

"Your Highness!" he says.

T'Challa nods, and they let the old man go. He shrugs his shoulders and straightens himself out, glaring at them.

"I have told you before, Mosi," T'Challa says, smiling more broadly than he actually wants to. "The Dora Milaje are very quick. It's really not wise to surprise them."

 _Or me_ , he thinks.

"Hmph. Well. It is often difficult to find you these days, and I take my opportunities when I get them."

"What is it?" he asks.

"The American," Mosi growls. "I hear he has been walking amongst us again?"

For a moment, T'Challa isn't sure which one he means. Perhaps all of them. He continues in the direction he was headed.

"Mosi, they are our guests."

"They are _your_ guests, Your Highness."

T'Challa turns sharply and looks down at him.

"And am I _not_ Wakanda?" he asks.

"I'm sorry, Your Highness, I didn't mean-- but the people are worried. With the assassin in cryo-storage, people's minds were eased, but I understand he's been taken out! For what purpose?"

T'Challa frowns. Someone in the medical team has been talking. He tries to keep walking, but Mosi tags along, to his immense displeasure. He would never say it out loud to anyone, but something about the old man has always rubbed him the wrong way. He considers whether to ask Nakia to escort the old man away. No, that would be taken as a grave insult, to be dragged bodily away from the king. T'Challa would never hear the end of it from Ramonda and S'Yan. T'Challa is developing a headache. 

"Mosi, the man has lost an arm. He is in need of medical treatment. Do we not have a duty to our fellow human beings in need?"

He wonders if Mosi has read any of the Hydra files that were leaked to the public when Captain Rogers brought down SHIELD, the ones about The Asset, who has no name or identity, who's talked about in the same way someone might talk about a piece of equipment. Most likely not. Mosi likes to form his opinions without being encumbered by things like facts. He is a staunch traditionalist. He is a relic, and he knows it.

"A duty to _Wakanda_ , certainly. But bringing foreigners here-- it's foolish. You invite conflict, you invite war, do you not see that?"

"Mosi," T'Challa says, stopping. "Would you have spoken to my father this way? Would you have shown him this disrespect, badgering him like a nagging old woman?"

"No," Mosi says, his face turning to stone. "But your father would have listened to me."

T'Challa has his doubts about that, but it would be impolitic to say so in present company.

"My father may well have done many things if he had not been killed. But he is not here. I am king, and my decision in this matter is final."

Mosi's chin juts out and shoves his lower lip up towards his nose. It makes him look comical, like an elephant without a trunk. When T'Challa was a boy, it was a challenge to look at him during state meetings without giving in to childish giggles. Now he understands why his father never seemed amused.

"Yes, Your Highness."

Mosi steps aside with a little bow as T'Challa walks on. The king is very conscious of how many eyes in the room are on him. He knew the news about Bucky would get out eventually, but not so soon. It is a bad sign. Everything is a bad sign these days. He feels heavy with it as he makes his way to the Queen Mother's rooms. He isn't looking forward to telling her that he won't be at dinner, but if he tells her in person it will soften the blow. She'll be able to see the regret on his face.

Through a set of huge double doors, he walks in to his mother's parlor. She is sat on the sofa with her feet tucked up under her, but somehow still sitting up razor straight. He pauses to admire the folds of the fabric draped around her. Moments like this, he wishes he could draw. He has minimal skill with a pencil, and he would never be able to do justice to her beauty and regal bearing. She smiles as she sees him and gets up, her robes fluttering.

"Mama," he says, leaning in to kiss her on both cheeks.

Ramonda embraces Nakia and Okoye just as affectionately. She turns to him.

"You seem perturbed, son."

He shrugs. His life has more or less been a constant state of perturbation since Vienna. The responsibilities crushed him immediately, and they have yet to let up.

He's always admired his father, as long as he can remember, but this is different. Now he _understands_. He feels the weight of it on him, and there are times he desperately wishes that he had noticed something, had acted just a little more quickly. Could he have saved his father? Perhaps not, but it doesn't stop him tormenting himself with thoughts about it.

"I ran into Mosi on the way here," he says.

Ramonda makes a _hmph_ sound in her throat. She has never liked Mosi either. She's never said as much, but it's clear enough in her demeanour. It makes T'Challa feel a little bit better about his own animosity towards the man. He knows this is petty and unkingly, but he feels it nonetheless.

"That would certainly do the trick."

"Mother, I won't be able to come to dinner tonight. I have a meeting very shortly, and then another, and then the call with the Prime Minister. I'm sorry."

She sighs, without rancor.

"Oh son, when will you learn to delegate? There are many people working for you who are every bit as qualified-- if not more so-- to make some of these decisions."

"I know, Mama, but…

 _I don't know who to trust_. Outside of a few treasured individuals, T'Challa is savvy enough to know that a new king has few friends. Many admirers, yes, and many looking for a quid pro quo, but few real friends, perhaps even fewer true allies.

He knows that his decision to harbor the Avengers-- the _Secret_ Avengers, he heard someone say once-- is unpopular. He understands all too well why. Foreigners have always been a threat to Wakanda, especially white ones. Why should his people see these people any differently than any other outsiders? They weren't there, in Leipzig, in Siberia. He can't expect them to understand the trust that's been forged between people who have fought together, and the guilt he still feels about blaming Bucky, trying to murder him in cold blood. Like so many other things, that burden is his to bear alone. This is what it is to be king.

He considers himself fortunate to be king of Wakanda and not any number of other nations, ones with less loyal citizens. They trust him, they trust his judgment, and this is why, despite the grumblings, they have not challenged him. Many of them still believe wholeheartedly in the divinity of the king as representative of the Panther God's will. T'Challa has no such conviction. He knows what he has always known, that the king is not a god or even godly-- at least, he isn't himself. He is only a man, and an imperfect one at that. That they should tolerate his mistakes, real or perceived, is proof that the people of Wakanda may be, as a whole, better and more righteous than its king.

Ramonda looks up at him and smiles, presses her hand to the side of his face.

"I can see the wheels turning in your mind, T'Challa. You always did think too much."

He brings his hand up to cover Ramonda's, closes his eyes.

"I would rather be someone who thinks far too much than someone who thinks very little."

"And I suppose those are the only possibilities?" she says.

"No, Mama."

"You have always thought in absolutes. It drove your father mad."

He raises an eyebrow, but she smiles at him.

"When your father married me, the nation in many ways was was still grieving for your mother. There were people who called me a usurper, a pretender."

"I know, Mama, I--"

"I endured so much vitriol, and there were times I wanted to simply walk away. But I didn't. And for two reasons. One was because I loved your father very much. The other was because I knew that I needed to be strong for you. It fell to me to be your mother, to help your father teach you right from wrong."

"You are the only mother I ever knew," T'Challa says, kissing her hand and kneeling. "I could not have asked for better."

"Oh, get up, boy, you're embarrassing me."

He does, smiling. He kisses her on the cheek again.

"I've heard Shuri is coming to visit?" he asks.

"Yes, in a few weeks, so brace yourself."

He laughs.

"I will batten all hatches."

"You laugh, but some days I'm glad that you have your disposition rather than your sister's."

"I don't think the two of us are so different," T'Challa says. "Except that I have always known that someday I would have to be king."

"You are more level-headed-- your behaviour in Siberia is proof. You did not only what was right, but what reflected well on Wakanda. And you didn't murder that poor man."

 _But I wanted to_ , he wants to say. _And I would have, if I hadn't been stopped_. It still chills him. He knows that Captain Rogers protected Bucky as much for himself as anything else, but nonetheless, he was the only person who stood between them. Because he had faith in his friend. T'Challa isn't sure whether there is anyone he trusts that much, apart from his mother and sister.

"You would think I had, the way people have been behaving."

Ramonda shrugs.

"People struggle with change. Wakanda has been hostile to outsiders for so long, you can't expect people to accept these men as friends right away. Let them prove their loyalty, and people will be kinder."

"They have nothing to prove," T'Challa snaps.

"To you, no. But not all of us were in Siberia with you. Give it time, son. You always were so bloody impatient."

He takes his leave of her, trying to smile and feeling no such desire. Ramonda's words should make him feel better, but instead he finds himself sliding into a deeper layer of melancholy. He doesn't want her to see him like this, nor anyone else. He leaves the Dora Milaje and slips out a side entrance to the palace, close to the waterfall and usually shrouded with mist. He slips off his shoes and socks and tucks them away under a bush.

He climbs carefully down a hidden rock face and sits alone in a cave-like depression carved out of the rock by thousands of years of water. It's been there since he was small, probably long before that. It was his refuge as a boy. It's the place he goes to be alone, truly alone, and to think without the interference of advisors, politicians, a hundred people who are absolutely right about this, if only Your Highness would listen to them. If someone were to speak to him here, he wouldn't be able to hear them for the roaring of the water. It's a thought that pleases him.

Alone now, he feels the tension between his shoulders snarling into a knot, the headache building at the back of his skull. He sits down on the stone with his arms around his knees, a child again, hiding from responsibilities. He pulls himself inward.

"I'm not ready for this," he says, the sound of the words lost in the rumble.

He's not certain that he would ever have been ready. His father had schooled him thoroughly in the concerns of kingship and statecraft, but no amount of training could really prepare him for the experience of being king.

"I miss you. I miss your advice and your confidence. You always seemed to know what to do, and that it was the _right_ thing to do. I feel like I'm being eaten alive by doubt."

There is no reply but the sound of the water on stone. His heart aches.

"There's been an outbreak of violence near the border. The third one this year. Adebayo thinks it's the work of foreign agents. He always thinks that. I think he is paranoid, and still angry that you chose to disagree with him about remaining isolated. Mosi, too. But Mosi is harmless, I think. He is rude and arrogant, but I think that is to compensate for feeling powerless now that you are gone. Adebayo may be dangerous. I am not sure what to do. He has done nothing wrong, and it would be presumptuous to condemn him on nothing more tangible than suspicion. But would I be naive to trust his loyalty? He says he is devoted to his king, devoted to Wakanda, but I think more than anything his loyalty is to himself."

He pulls himself inward, aching, and closes his eyes. He rests his forehead on his knees.

"I'm so tired, _baba_. Did we make a mistake, opening ourselves up to the world? I couldn't have guessed what would happen. I didn't foresee the consequences. I didn't have to. This was a luxury given to me only as long as you were king. An indulgence of youth."

He knows that his is the struggle of every child, to see far too late how a parent has protected them, and what from. The trials to become the Black Panther seem almost simple in comparison. Survive. Fight. Win. This is different. Like trying to move silently over treacherously soft ground. He is still not at all certain that he has the temperament for politics. But there is no one else. Shuri is too young, and too hotheaded.

"I feel like a child wearing his father's clothes. I wish you were here."

Despite his decision to open Wakanda up to the world, T'chaka was a traditionalist. He believed in the religion of Wakandans, in Bast and Sekhmet, the divinity of the king, and in something beyond the mortal struggles of this world. He believed in the idea of eternal peace.

Though he would never have said so while his father was alive, T'Challa does not. There is only this world and thus only what we do with it that matters. His father is gone, and eventually he will learn to accept that. Until then, he will come to this place behind the waterfall and speak to him, and ask him for advice. And then he will get up and go back to work.


	2. Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness

The first thing Bucky sees when he wakes up is not Steve. He's in bed, in a sterile-looking room. He trembles. Hydra have gotten him again, god knows what they'll do to him now, and he starts looking for exits. Then he remembers. Siberia. Tony. Wakanda. He's wrapped in some kind of thin foil garment; he can hear it crinkle around him under the covers. Beneath it he's still wearing the tank top and pants he was wearing when he went on ice. His left arm is conspicuous by its absence, a ghost at his side. T'Challa sits at his bedside, his face creased with concern. He holds out his hand.

"Don't get up. The doctors said that you will be disorientated for a while."

No one else is in the room with them. Bucky's heart hammers.

"S--s--something wrong? What happened?"

T'Challa frowns in puzzlement, then looks down as he pieces it together: Bucky assumes they woke him up because they need him. He assumes they woke him up because things have gone to shit so badly that even the threat of the Winter Soldier isn't worse than the alternative. T'Challa shakes his head.

"Please don't worry, everything is fine. Are you… all right?"

Meaning is he Bucky or the Winter Soldier. Reasonable first question. _Ready to comply_ , he thinks, and shivers.

"I'm me."

He smiles thinly, and T'Challa smiles back, almost as thin. Now that he's past that momentary adrenaline spike, exhaustion creeps in again. It's like he's been in the field for three days with no shelter, aching and cold and weary. Bucky's not sure if it's the cryo or the mild sedative they gave him beforehand.

"No," T'Challa says. "I could tell."

There's an IV in his arm, peeking out through a gap in the foil thing's extra-long sleeves. Likely a stimulant, maybe something nutritional. _Designed to provide asset with necessary nutrients and stabilize_ \-- Bucky shakes his head. T'Challa's eyes follow his gaze down.

"You won't be able to eat solid food just yet, so this will keep your blood sugar levels steady. How do you feel?"

"Sleepy. And cold." He frowns. "How long have you been sitting here?"

T'Challa looks at his watch.

"About ten minutes. The medical team has been monitoring you very closely. They alerted me when you seemed close to regaining consciousness. This thawing is more gradual than you are used to, but it will be better for you. Less traumatic.”

It's a hell of a lot more pleasant than his last defrosting, although that's a low bar to leap. He's covered in blankets up to his waist, silvery and light as a feather but very warm. He feels heavy. Feels cold, even under the blankets. He shivers again, and T'Challa pulls the covers up to his chin. He tucks them in around Bucky's shoulders. It makes him feel like a child. Like he's home sick with the flu and not a recovered brainwashed Soviet super-assassin with a missing robot arm. It's not an entirely unpleasant feeling.

"The staff will get you anything you need. In the meantime, I will let you rest."

"Right, I'm sure you're busy doing... being king."

In truth, he has no idea what T'Challa does when he's not beating the shit out of him. Meetings, probably. Lots of meetings. It's hard sometimes for Bucky to wrap his mind around the fact that the soft-spoken man sitting next to him is the king of a country, not to mention being a stone-cold badass. With no egotism, Bucky knows that there are very few people on earth who could take him on. Fewer still who'd actually try. Bucky's pretty sure that T'Challa would have taken his head off without the intervention of a superhuman, a small army, and a helicopter. It's hard to reconcile the force of nature that nearly murdered him in Bucharest with the quiet man in the room with him now. Sitting there, at rest but still somehow graceful, he could be a dancer.

"I wanted you to wake to a familiar face, even if it was mine."

Something clicks then.

"Where's Steve?"

"At present, Sicily."

Bucky considers that information for a moment.

"He doesn't know I'm awake."

Not an accusation, a statement. T'Challa doesn't betray any defensiveness.

"No, not yet. You are welcome to contact him, if you would like to. There is a _kimoyo_ here, with wifi. His number has been programmed into it. You need only press a button."

T'Challa sets a small handheld device about the size of a business card on the bed near Bucky's hand. _Tablet?_ his brain provides, once he thinks about it hard enough.

"Okay. A _kimoyo_? Is that like a phone?"

T'Challa smiles the way he always does when he's about to throw shade at the West.

"Better. We could have modified your phones to work with Wakandan technology, but it's simpler and frankly a better use of our time to just give you _kimoyo_. This is an older model-- they thought it might be easier for you to use than..."

T'Challa holds up his own wrist, circled by a string of large black beads. Bucky looks at the _kimoyo_ next to him. Doesn't move. T'Challa clears his throat.

"I thought it best if he was not here when you woke. I hope I did not misjudge. If so, I am sorry."

Bucky shakes his head. A weak smile pulls up one side of his mouth. T'Challa did the right thing-- or at least what Bucky would have wanted him to, if he'd been able to give an opinion.

"He's gonna have a shitfit when he finds out, though."

T'Challa raises his eyebrows and gives a little shrug.

"He is your friend, and he cares for you very much. But he does not own you."

Bucky almost laughs, a hoarse little _hunh_.

"Don't let him hear you say that, you might have to fight him again."

T'Challa smiles. It transforms his normally serious face. Makes him look younger. Bucky realises with a start that this is the first time they've ever been alone together. It feels strange.

"I woke you because we believe we have made the necessary strides to treat you, and there is no one who can make that decision except you."

Bucky's chest contracts.

"The arm or the brainwashing?"

"Both. They are part of the same trauma, and must be treated together. We'll provide you with all the necessary information, of course, so that you can review it and make an informed decision. And if you should decide to go back into stasis, I will respect your decision."

Bucky nods, looks down. His heart is thumping hard-- he can see his chest and the blankets pulsing with it. If he's honest with himself, he went under not quite believing he was ever going to wake up again. And being okay with it. He and Steve fought about it, but for him it was never a question. He's dangerous, even when he's himself, and if he becomes the Soldier again? He's not sure how many more deaths he can have on his conscience now that he's somewhat come back to himself.

He can't help being skeptical about whether T'Challa's army of doctors can fix what's been done to his head. The Winter Soldier is part of him, like the goddamn arm was. He suspects that the trigger words might be inextricably connected with everything else in his brain, his nervous system. Like his memories before the war and the combat training that makes him formidable even as himself. Like the languages. They all exist inside his head without his conscious thought or permission. They just _are_. To lose them would be to create a void in himself, and not one he wants to stare into. He transfixes for a moment.

"Bucky?"

He blinks. T'Challa's voice is as smooth as ever, but Bucky can see the way his body is coiled up. Ready.

"Sorry. Foggy."

"I understand. Please let me know if there is anything you need."

He gets up. Bucky pulls his arm from beneath the coverlet. It feels leaden and cold even in the heat trapping sleeve, slow to respond. He takes T'Challa's hand. It burns against his frigid skin, but he holds on anyway. T'Challa's fingers close around his, and his other hand comes to rest on top.

"Thank you," Bucky says.

"You are most welcome, my friend. May I visit you again?"

"Of course. Will--" He struggles to articulate it, grimaces. "Will I be… okay here?"

_If I activate again, will I be responsible for more deaths?_

T'Challa squeezes his hand.

"This room is the most secure place on earth. It is biometrically locked. At present, only I can enter, although we can change that if you would like. It is also fully automated, with failsafes and a pressurized ventilation system. At the first sign of any trouble, it will flood the room with paralyzing gas in less than one second. If you would like to be alone, we can provide for all your needs without sending anyone in."

"But what about you?" Bucky asks.

T'Challa gives him an amused smile.

"I believe I've demonstrated that I can hold my own against you, even with both arms."

Bucky's mouth twists into something like a smile. T'Challa lets go of his hand and gives him a final reassuring look before he silently pads out. Christ, he really does move like a cat.

The door closes to create a seamless wall, and Bucky abruptly feels bereft. All alone again. He looks at the device on the coverlet. He presses his lips back against his teeth. Truth be told, he's relieved that Steve's not here, and he feels guilty about feeling relieved. The man did move mountains for him. He's defied every government on the planet, made himself a fugitive, and god knows what else in the months Bucky's been in stasis.

But he didn't ask Steve to do that, and there's a part of him that wishes he could have just stayed in Bucharest, unknown and left alone. He'd been doing well, before everything went to shit again. He had his notebooks, he'd been putting together the twisted puzzle pieces of his life, slowly, but surely. He'd been learning to be human again. But there's no point in regrets or wishing. What's the phrase, the one his mother used to say was vulgar: wish in one hand, shit in the other, see which fills first. Besides, it could be worse. He's here, relatively safe, protected from the millions of people who'd like to see him publicly executed. He thinks of Tony's face, twisted with grief, and swallows. He picks up the _kimoyo_. It's feather-light, with a touch screen. Its menu is intuitive, the interface built for a man with one hand, although he can't help his lingering dislike for touch screens. Damn things would never work with the bionic fingers. He swipes through a few menus and figures out how to call, finds Steve's number.

He sets it down and lets it power off. Steve would complicate things. He always does. He means well, but he's every bit as stubborn and bossy as he was a million years ago, in Brooklyn and then in Europe. Probably even worse now, what with being an Avenger and all. It's better that he's not here yet. It gives Bucky the opportunity to think without having to also worry about how Steve is feeling. He needs some time on his own.

There's… _space_ , for lack of a better word, without Steve. He means well, he's missed Bucky, and Bucky's missed him. He misses him now. But Steve is a force of nature, a walking hurricane. Right now what Bucky needs is shelter. He hasn't had much time to think since Bucharest, but the spare moments he had were mostly spent worrying about the way that Steve sacrificed everything-- even his other friends-- for him. Steve would burn the whole world for him. That's a hell of a liability.

Next to the bed is a metal shelf bolted into the wall, just about shoulder level. There's a drawer in it. He pulls it open. Inside are a couple of new notebooks and an assortment of writing instruments. Bucky smiles thinly. He closes the drawer and lets himself drift back to sleep.


	3. Within the book and volume of my brain

Bucky wakes again in dimmed light. He doesn't know what time it is. His head is foggy and faintly aching, although in the long list of traumas and injuries he's suffered, it hardly registers. He sits up and winces. The room is featureless, round, empty apart from the bed. If Bucky had to guess he would say it's well inside at least two or three more secure walls. There are no windows, no visible exit-- which is understandable, really. Smart. He's in no mood to go anywhere anyway.

He picks up the _kimoyo_ that T'Challa left with him and swipes through the menus. It seems to be a kind of electronic _concierge_. It will call anyone he wants, wake him up, give him information. There's even a list of suggested exercises for amputees.

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and shrugs off the crackly insulated gown. It catches on the IV in his arm, so he disconnects it and lets the hose dangle from the rack. He stands up, stretches, cracks his back in a few places. He rolls his head around on his neck. He picks a spot on the floor and gets down on his knees to do pushups. It's harder with one arm, even with the weight of the prosthesis gone. He's off balance, and it takes him a few tries to find a position that works. He counts twenty, counts it a second time, and then rests on his hand and knees as dizziness washes over him. He hangs his head to let the blood flow there.

When the spell passes, he sits back to do sit-ups. Count to twenty, count to forty, count to sixty. He could easily do more, but it's not really about pushing himself. He just needs a little adrenaline. Moving feels better than sitting around.

Something somewhere beeps, and Bucky looks up. A few seconds later, the door opens, and T'Challa comes in.

"Good morning," he says with a broad smile that makes Bucky smile back before he can even think about it.

"Is it morning?"

"No, it isn't. You can adjust the lighting if you like. It can approximate daylight. The panel is just here, by the bed."

T'Challa presses his hand to the wall for a moment. When he withdraws it, there's a touch screen on the wall. T'Challa doesn't touch it, but he does fiddle with the _kimoyo_ band around his wrist. The room brightens. A little too bright.

Bucky holds his arm up to shade his eyes, and T'Challa reduces the brightness. He swipes through a holographic menu, and the walls of the room turn an undulating blue. For a moment Bucky thinks it's his imagination, but no, that's the sound of the ocean coming from somewhere. Another swipe, and the room is jungle green. Insects chirrup, and somewhere in the distance a bird calls.

"There are a number of settings," T'Challa says. "You can adjust them to whatever you like. It's meant to be calming."

"Fancy."

"Not really. We use this sort of thing for children's rooms."

Bucky laughs, hesitantly. He's not sure whether T'Challa is fucking with him, and T'Challa gives no indication one way or another.

"Would you like to go for a walk?" T'Challa asks. "I assumed you would want to know the details of our treatment plan as soon as possible, but if you prefer to rest a bit more, that's fine."

"No, I'm… I want to know."

T'Challa leads him out of the room, into an equally sterile-looking corridor of shining brushed metal.

"What time is it?" Bucky asks. "Wait, how did you know I was awake?"

"6.07 pm. There is a motion sensor in the recovery room. It is programmed to alert me if you move."

"Keeping tabs on me?" Bucky teases.

T'Challa doesn't rise to the bait. Bucky shivers and rubs his arms with his hands, then shoves them into the pockets of his trousers.

"No, I just didn't want you to be on your own too long after you woke. Are you comfortable?"

"Little cold. Fine though."

T'Challa looks down and clucks his tongue.

"I am sorry, I forgot you weren't wearing shoes. Come, we'll get you something."

They get Bucky a pair of black slippers or some kind of soft shoes, lushly padded in the soles. They're more comfortable than anything Bucky's had on his feet before. The attendant also brings him a grey sweater that turns out to be shockingly soft. Bucky rubs his face against it before he can think to stop himself. T'Challa presses his lips together, but the smile comes anyway. Bucky puts on the sweater, hunches up his shoulders and wiggles to feel the material move against his skin.

"This is nice. Thanks."

They come out of the minor labyrinth of Bucky's area into a corridor where other people are bustling around. Most of them are wearing white lab coats. They nod in polite acknowledgment, murmuring something in Wakandan, and Bucky nods back. He can't tell if their blank expressions are concealing their distaste or if they're just the preoccupied faces of people at work. Maybe a little of both. Wakandans are hard to read.

T'Challa leads him to a door, opens it for him, and then follows him into a room filled with scientific equipment-- microscopes, computers, medical equipment. In one corner someone is soldering a tiny circuit board using a screen to magnify it. There's a faint smell of ozone. Something inside Bucky quails, and he stops in his tracks, trembling.

"Bucky?"

His heart pounds, and for a second Bucky's sure he's going to collapse, or flee back to the room where he's been sleeping. 

"Breathe," T'Challa murmurs.

He places his hand in the small of Bucky's back. It's warm, even through the layers of fabric he's wearing.Bucky does as he's told and takes a deep breath. It makes him feel a little better. A little more centered.

"Sorry. Don't react well to…"

He gestures around the lab, and T'Challa's face registers dawning comprehension. A few other people are bustling around, conspicuously not paying attention to him and T'Challa. There's an exam table with a couple of things arranged on it. One looks a lot like his destroyed arm, dangling wires and cables, plugged into something somewhere, like it's growing out of a block of electronics. There's a monitor and some kind of control device connected to it. Bucky's stomach rolls over. Next to it is what looks like a long, flesh-colored glove. His stomach lurches again, and he looks away, up to the ceiling, the floor, anything but what's on the table.

T'Challa introduces him to the team that's been working on the project, four women and three men in white lab coats with varying degrees of poker face. Bucky decides to start rating on a scale of one to ten just how much contempt particular Wakandans have for him. The general consensus of this group seems to be about an eight. Not that he blames them. He's a menace, even on a good day.

A tall woman with neat braids, almost as tall as Bucky and T'Challa, steps forward with some kind of electronic clipboard in her arms.

"Good afternoon, Sgt. Barnes. Dr Roberta Okereke. I will be overseeing your treatment."

He shakes his head vigorously, back and forth, too many times, until he realizes people are staring.

"Please," he says. "Bucky."

He never wants to hear his Army rank again. The doctor makes a little note. She holds out her right hand. There's a little halt as muscle memory tries to lead with the left, and then he shakes with his right. He feels like he's perpetually listing to starboard now, without the weight of the bionic arm. It's an illusion-- if anything it's the opposite-- but it persists.

"His Highness suggested that you would want something with maximal mobility and strength, comparable to your lost arm, so we have designed our prototype accordingly. It is made of a special alloy of vibranium, with some titanium and adamantium parts. Very light, very strong. We examined the old one, analyzed the schematics. We can also discuss modifications, if you like."

She hesitates, then indicates the metal arm. It looks a lot like the old arm, only... lighter somehow. Brighter. Maybe it's just in his mind.

"Can I?"

"Of course. You can use this terminal-- it will show you the construction if you like, the components, and allow you to manipulate it. It is capable of a full range of motion."

Bucky touches the terminal-- another goddamn touchscreen-- and goes into its testing module. The arm on the table tenses. It's more than a little spooky. He flicks back and forth across the screen, making the hand close into a fist, opening again. He makes the elbow bend, the palm open, and looks at T'Challa.

"Wanna arm wrestle?"

T'Challa snorts.

"You're a child."

Bucky looks over at Dr Okereke. She presses her lips together to suppress a smile. Bucky grins, and the smile wins out. _Still got it._ If he can joke, he's still human. They haven't managed to take that from him, at least.

The arm has a 'skin' of some fancy futuristic metal that shifts and flexes to accommodate movement in a way that's way more elegant than the metal plates of the old one. Bucky runs his fingertips over it. It's slightly chilly to the touch, not as slippery as he would have expected.

"And this?" he asks, gesturing towards the glove-thing, which still makes him a bit sick to look at.

"This is a prototype. We can, if you desire, produce a kind of 'skin' that will fit over the arm and make it look like a natural limb rather than a prosthesis."

He pokes at the rubbery skin of it.

"Jesus, that's creepy."

She ignores that.

"It is designed to be as lifelike as possible. Once we do a proper scan we can make it an exact match."

"What, the exact color of my skin?"

Dr Okereke raises her eyebrows as if to say _are you kidding_.

"With the high resolution scanning and printing we use, it would be nearly indistinguishable from your other arm, even up close. We could add birthmarks or scars, if you like, for realism."

"So… I'd look normal again."

"Yes, if you like. We have also devised a cutting-edge program of psychological and physical treatment for you. It will be very intense, but we believe it's the best way forward. Please read over the details and contact me if you have any questions. I have also sent you a copy, Your Highness."

"How long will the operation take?" Bucky asks.

"More than twelve hours, I'm afraid. The complexity of the prosthesis demands it, and we must also attach it to your existing shoulder using whatever connections are still viable. We will use a local anesthetic, but you will need to be conscious the entire time."

She hesitates.

"If you would prefer not to do the procedure, that is also an option I want you to be aware of."

He tilts his head, surprised.

"But you've done all this work…"

"The advances we've made with this project will be used for other persons with lost limbs. We've made significant improvements on the old design. In fact, this technology is more advanced than anything Stark Industries has come up with."

It has the ring of something that gets said a lot and with an immense amount of satisfaction. Bucky smiles. He glances at the nub that is his left shoulder. All of them seem to have just assumed-- Bucky included-- that he would replace the arm as soon as he could. What would it be like to just… not do it? He goes quiet as he thinks about it, stares at his feet in their slippers on the spotless floor.

"How long will you need to prepare?" T'Challa asks.

"We'll need to perform an in-depth physical exam and then run some simulations. I would say it is possible to schedule the surgery within the next week, if all goes well. And if Bucky chooses to proceed."

He looks up at her. She looks directly at him, almost expectant, and he's suddenly swept away by the realization that she's right-- it _is_ his choice. He could choose not to do this. He could stay as he is, maimed but no less a human being for that. Maybe more so. He'd have to adjust, of course. He's become so reliant on the left arm that he keeps catching himself trying to do things with it before he remembers that it's gone. Getting dressed is a challenge. How long would it take to become accustomed to? What would his life be like?

There would be no more missions, for one thing. Can't very well send a guy into the field with one arm, even if he has a dozen knives and two machine guns. Steve wouldn't stand for it. Would Steve pity him, he wonders. If he chose not to replace his arm, would Steve feel awful and stretch himself forever on the rack of his own guilt? Would Sam pity him? Would the wisecracks stop? Bucky catches his lip between his teeth and pulls it in.

"You don't have to decide just now," Dr Okereke adds.

Bucky manages to look at her and nods. T'Challa takes her hand, looks over her shoulder to the rest of the team.

"Thank you," Bucky manages to say.

He swallows. His throat aches. It's hard to look at anyone.

"We will let you return to your work," T'Challa says. "Please let me know if there is anything you need."

T'Challa indicates the door, thanks them again, and leads him out of the lab. Bucky glances back as they're walking and does a double-take. He stops. Dr Okereke's right leg below the knee is a column of shining metal that disappears into her shoe. The components flex and move as she shifts her weight. He looks up at her, and she smiles.

They exit the lab, joined immediately by a pair of Dora Milaje who stride silently beside them, women he hasn't seen before. They're both strikingly beautiful, and both seem equally disinterested in his presence. One of them has an intriguing pattern of tattoos on her face and shaved head. Bucky makes a point of not staring, although he can't help but be curious about them. T'Challa speaks to the women in Wakandan, a melodic mixture of tonal syllables and clicks. Bucky lets the sound of it wash over him. It's actually kind of nice to hear a language he doesn't understand. The girls leave them at the door to the medical suite, acknowledging Bucky with a curt nod and then walking away. He waits until they're alone again, in his recovery room.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Why are all of your bodyguards beautiful women?"

T'Challa laughs.

"The Dora Milaje are more than just bodyguards, although they are that, yes. And they _are_ beautiful. There are many tribes in Wakanda, and as you might imagine, they do not always get along. As a means of keeping the peace, the Dora Milaje are chosen from each tribe, and then brought here to train and to act as the king's royal guard. A bit like your Secret Service-- but more effective, and better-looking. They are the deadliest people in the world."

Bucky didn't need to be told that last part. He can tell by the way they carry themselves just how dangerous they are.

"They don't seem to like me very much. But I'm kinda used to that."

"Would you like me to have a word with them?"

"No!"

T'Challa grins at him, and then Bucky catches on that he's joking. He narrows his blue eyes.

"I've had enough people try to kill me lately, if you don't mind," Bucky says.

"Don't take it personally. They are very protective of me."

"Yeah, you really seem to need protecting. What's that one word mean? You keep saying it to each other-- _indonda_?"

T'Challa looks almost impressed.

"Your pronunciation is not as awful as I would have expected," T'Challa says. Bucky raises his eyebrows. " _Intanta_ means beloved. In addition to serving as bodyguards to the king, they serve a traditional ceremonial role as… wives-in-training, is one translation."

Bucky's eyebrows go higher.

"They're your wives?"

" _No_. The English language has no proper word for their relationship to me. Your people seem to have difficulty understanding the breadth and complexity of any kind of love besides the romantic kind. They are my bodyguards, and my beloved. They would all die for me without hesitation."

Bucky looks at him speculatively.

"Would you let them?"

"Let us hope that is a question I never have to answer."


	4. To sleep: perchance to dream*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes a brief masturbation scene, possibly NSFW
> 
> In mixed English/Wakandan chapters, I've used angle brackets to indicate people speaking Wakandan.

There is no transition between sleep and waking-- suddenly T'Challa is awake, drenched with sweat and clutching at his chest. The bedclothes are tangled around his legs and torso like the tentacles of some monster made entirely of cotton. He sits up, gasping. A knock at the door.

<Beloved, are you all right?> someone asks through the door.

<Fine,> he says, hoping it sounds more convincing than it feels.

Did he cry out? The nightmare is already disintegrating into shreds, but he's fairly sure he screamed in it. He drags his hand down his face. His hand moves to his throat. He can still feel the constriction around it. Bucky's metal arm, holding him by the neck, just high enough that his toes can't touch the ground. His blue eyes blank and empty, his face expressionless apart from the tension in his jaw and the frown of concentration he makes while he holds T'Challa up and squeezes the life from him. In the habit of dreams, T'Challa cannot make his limbs cooperate, although they know a dozen different ways to get out of this hold. As if his body has surrendered to the inevitability of this end.

He shivers. His sleep has not been particularly sound of late. He isn't sure if any of the Dora Milaje have noticed, but his mother definitely has. He catches himself jumping at ordinary sounds, even ones that aren't loud. It's almost as if there's a frequency he's tuned into that galvanises him whenever he hears it. He always looks around to see if anyone noticed. Nine times out of ten they don't, too wrapped up in their own doings, but Ramonda caught him flinching at the sound of fireworks one night. She said nothing, only gave him a long searching look that made him feel as if he'd been turned upside down and shaken out.

There are very few people on the planet who can genuinely understand his situation, fewer still that have lost what he's lost. Vienna remains a fixed point in his life, a scar on his admittedly privileged life. Has he been so coddled, that he breaks so easily? He knows very well the terrors that other people suffer: not only death, but torture, exile, starvation, the long crushing grind between the wheels of poverty. And yet they endure.

He stares at the ceiling. His brother Hunter used to tease him about his fragile psyche, about the way he would lie in bed and think about all the terrible things that happened in the world, and how powerless he felt to change them. He remembers thinking at the time that when he was king, things would be different. Then he would have the power to do what was right. Help the weak, destroy the wicked, solve every problem. It wasn't the first of his naive fantasies to be sacrificed on the altar of kinghood. It was, however, one of the ones that was most difficult to let go of.

He worries his lower lip between his teeth. Cynicism? Already? Only a king for a year, and this is where he finds himself. Alone. Unhappy. Tormenting himself with thoughts of what he cannot change, tying himself in knots with guilt.

This is indulgent nonsense. He rolls over and closes his eyes, drags his mind away from all the thoughts pecking at it like vultures. He can only do what he has done thus far: continue to survive, to do what is within his power as a man, as a king, to right the wrongs of the world. It's all he _can_ do, and to expect otherwise is not just naive but arrogant.

*

It's an understatement to say that Bucky hasn't slept well the past couple of years. Being wanted and on the run and recovering from several decades of brainwashing will do that to a guy. It takes a full two weeks before he manages to sleep for more than an hour. He wakes in the night, dragged from sleep by some tiny sound or by his nightmares. Either the room is soundproofed really well, or they're just ignoring his screaming.

Some of them might be memories. It's hard for him to tell the difference. He dreams about the disaster in DC. He relives the helicarrier crash and his confrontation with Steve. He's so angry with Steve. _Why did you have to do this to me?_ he screams, and his metal hand closes around Steve's throat. _Why did you have to make me feel again? Why does it hurt so much?_ In others, he's standing on the parapet in that Hydra base in Italy again, screaming _NO NOT WITHOUT YOU_. Then it changes and he's _soldat_ , relentlessly beating Steve to death with a metal arm that he can't control.

He wakes up gasping and sweating in the night. He thrashes around in bed for a few seconds before he remembers that he's awake. That he's safe. The arm that was destroying Steve's face is gone. There's nothing there now except empty space. He clutches that shoulder with his good hand and reminds himself. There's only the stub with its black cap. Tony obliterated it, and Bucky wanted him to. He's not sure if Steve realizes that, or if he's capable of admitting it to himself.

Steve is really the only person in the world who can even understand a small part what he's been through. Bucky desperately misses him. Wants to talk to him, but he knows the second Steve hears from him he'll be on his way back to Wakanda, and then suffocation will set in. Steve will want to Help, and Bucky'll be too preoccupied with managing Steve's guilt to deal with any of his own bullshit. As much as it makes him ache, it's better for Steve not to be here just yet. This belongs to him. He has to deal with it alone.

Bucky dozes again, drifts into restless sleep. He feels something clamp around his arm, feels the vibration of the machine as it moves in to clasp his face in that high-voltage handshake. He screams, even before it begins. He wakes up gasping. He can't breathe. He shoves himself out of bed and goes to the sink in the little bathroom they've opened up for him. The room seems to have a lot of hidden panels and features they can either reveal or hide. His good arm is numb. He braces himself over the sink and tries to slow down his panicking heart. He flings open the medicine cabinet. They've given him Xanax, in limited quantities-- as if he's gone through all this just to kill himself-- and up to this point he's managed not to use it. Causes memory loss, according to the warnings. He's had enough of that to last a lifetime.

He swallows a couple of them, sticks his face under the faucet to wash them down with tap water. He tries not to look at his reflection in the dark mirror. He wonders if this time maybe it is a heart attack. His body's been under a lot of stress for the past eighty years, and it wouldn't really surprise him if he just keeled over one day. He tries to concentrate on his breathing. Dr Okereke's been teaching him meditation techniques. Focus on the act of breathing. In and out. He'd scoffed initially, but he can't deny that right now, at least, it helps.

A few minutes pass before the Xanax start to take effect. His breathing slows. Suddenly things don't seem quite so urgent and terrifying. He takes another drink of water straight from the tap and walks back to bed. The sheets are damp. He makes a face and climbs in anyway. The dread and horror are more distant now. It's a relief, and he wonders just why the fuck he held out so long against taking this stuff anyway.

Oh yeah, memory loss. Still, there's nothing about this night worth remembering. He lies back and stares at the ceiling. His breathing slows, and the fist in his chest loosens. He sighs. The room is still dark, so it's still nighttime. He could check the exact time, but he's not sure he wants to know. Instead he lies on top of the sheets and mutters to himself. His good hand picks at a thread in his pants, shifts the material. His dick twitches. For a moment he remains absolutely still, startled by the sudden warmth in his belly. He swallows. Tugs on the pants again. The fine cotton whispers against his skin. His breath catches. There's a seam in the pants, sitting right on his burgeoning hard-on. He bites his lip and presses his hand to it. The friction of the seam against his dick is firmer now, as is his dick. Bucky lets his head tip back and sighs. How long has it been? Too long.

Drowsing, half asleep, Bucky smiles a little at the thought that he hasn't jerked off in eighty years. The closest he's come was some desperate mattress humping in Bucharest, just enough friction to get him off and make the need go away. For some reason he couldn't quite bring himself to masturbate in earnest, and he's not sure why. Now he gives over to it, despite the fact that there's probably a camera in this room. He doubts anyone's watching at this hour, and more to the point, he doesn't really care. If anything, it amps up the intensity as he closes his hand around his cock.

All those years as the Soldier, some of them spent in the field instead of in the meat locker, and had he ever done this? No. _Soldat_ was beyond that kind of humanity. The Soldier had no needs except to complete the mission. Even survival was only important in that it allowed him to complete the mission. He pushes the thought out of his head. Before doesn't matter. Now is what matters. Bucky spits into his hand and strokes harder. His hips lift a little, and his lips part. _God_ , it feels good. There's nothing else in the world. Only the building pleasure and the way it resonates in his body, tingles in the small of his back, curls his toes. He comes with a gasp, shocked by it ( _how long has it been?_ ), and then lies there, stunned. He's asleep before he can answer his own question.

*

The next morning is Bucky's fifth session with Dr Okereke. He was skeptical, but both she and T'Challa were very firm about the necessity of it, along with the counterconditioning sessions. Coercion wasn't explicitly threatened, but it was implied. He has no doubt that they'd do it. It's not just about the trigger words or just about his arm or just about the rest of the garbage in his brain. Everything's connected.

All the same, he doesn't try to hide his irritability when he goes to the lab. Dr Okereke takes him into the treatment room, softly furnished with a couple of overstuffed chairs and a chaise longue. The carpet is thick and soft under his feet. She preps his arm for an injection and then gives him a dose of something. It could be anything. It could kill him. All the same, he holds his arm still while she administers the day's drugs. The deprogramming plan says that today is hypnotic day, but he can't really remember what the name of it is.

"There are just a few things I must ask you as a matter of course."

"'Kay."

"Are you experiencing any suicidal urges?"

"No."

 _Not anymore_ , he's tempted to add, but he doesn't want to make this any more excruciating than it has to be. His plan is to play along as much as he can, to seem-- he shudders-- _compliant_. He wants those words out of his head, and he'll go along with whatever dog and pony show is necessary to make it happen.

"Thoughts of hurting yourself or others?" she asks.

He gives her a withering look.

"Most of my thoughts involve hurting myself or others. It's kinda all I've done for the last eighty years."

Dr Okereke, unruffled, clasps her hands together in her lap.

"Let me clarify: do you feel as if you are going to hurt yourself or anyone else?"

"… no."

"Good."

He frowns.

"What would you do if I said yes?"

She thinks for a moment.

"We would have a few different options. Sedation is the most obvious, as well as a return to cryostasis. Restraints are unlikely to be of much use, given your strength, even without the artificial arm."

He absorbs that information, lips pursed.

"Would you kill me?"

"Only if it were unavoidable. I think it highly unlikely that you would do anything to make that necessary."

"The trigger words."

"The trigger words are meaningless unless spoken in the right order. I'm curious, Bucky, why you are pressing the issue."

He shrugs.

"I want to know that you'll do what you have to if it comes to it."

Dr Okereke leans forward a little, looks him right in the eye.

"I want to help you get better. It's why I became a doctor-- to help people. But make no mistake, Bucky, if there is ever a time when I think your danger to us is great enough, I will give the order to put you down."

He believes her. He sits back, not as relieved as he thinks he should be.

"A lot of people would be happy to see that happen."

"And if you could talk to them, what would you say?"

He shrugs.

"I don't know.

She waits for a few moments.

"You have no thoughts?"

Another shrug.

"It doesn't matter what I say. I'm a murderer. I'm a terrorist. I've done a lot of horrible things, and no matter what, there are people who want to believe I did them because I wanted to."

"That isn't the point of my question, James."

He narrows his eyes at her.

"The purpose of therapy is not to solve everything, but to make you see it in a new light. We know how things are. We know what you've been accused of, and we know what action others would like to take if they could. What I want to know is what is going on inside your head, because that is far more important than everyone else's concerns put together."

Bucky blinks, slowly. The drugs are taking effect. It's like an unmooring. He doesn't exactly feel like he's floating, or drifting away, just… loosening. Dr Okereke watches him closely. Her voice is soft the next time she speaks.

"Bucky, you must open yourself up for this to work."

He's silent for a minute. Dr Okereke lets him be quiet, gives him the space to decide that he wants to speak.

"Back in Bucharest, I was getting by, but… I knew it was temporary. I knew sooner or later something had to happen. Something always does."

"It's inevitable, you think," Dr Okereke suggests.

"Yeah. Inevitable."

"Do you believe in fate?" she asks.

He snorts.

"And yet," she continues. "You use the word _inevitable,_ as if you are programmed to do only one thing."

" _I am literally programmed to do one thing!_ " he shouts, suddenly furious. "I'm a monster. No, I am. Frankenstein's creature, that's me. I was born, but then I was _made_. Somebody turned me into something horrible. What was it rotting inside me that let this happen? Why am I like this?"

He drops his face into his hand.

"You blame yourself for what happened to you?"

He sinks down in his chair, sulking.

"How can I not? I made the choice. I became a sniper. I followed Steve back into the shit when I could have gone home, and I picked up that goddamn shield thinking like an asshole that I could hold it. And then I died. I was tortured, reprogrammed, erased. They broke me, and they put me back together with something missing."

Bucky shivers, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the room. He's not enjoying this particular drug as much as earlier ones. His head feels like an echo chamber, his voice bouncing off the walls.

"I would like to get to the bottom of this conviction you have that this is somehow your fault, or that you brought it on yourself."

He rolls his eyes. Civilians. People who aren't soldiers can't possibly understand what it's like to go out knowing that you're probably going to kill someone. What that does to you. This woman has no idea what he's been through. Reading about it, even seeing it, isn't the same as experiencing it. He stares at the floor and says nothing for the rest of the session.


	5. A consummation devoutly to be wish'd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: discussion of suicide

After his session, Bucky wastes no time getting back to his room. It's his only refuge at present, the only thing in the world that could be said to belong to him. Being alone is easier. Solitude is something he's learned to cope with. Loneliness is better than terror, it's better to be by himself than to worry about what he might do. Besides, dealing with Wakandans would be challenging enough if he were normal. As it is, there are times he wants to lock himself in his room and never come out again, never see another neutral expression that he can read hatred into.

Bucky-- or at least, the Winter Soldier-- is familiar with most of the social conventions in Europe, the Americas, and Asia. He has to be. No assassin is going to be very successful if he sticks out like a sore thumb. His instinct is to blend in, to become one of the locals, but that's more of a challenge in Wakanda. For one thing, he's white. He's a Westerner, an augmented human. A monster. He couldn't be more out of place or more conspicuous. It makes his skin prickle.

He's exposed and raw, like a debrided burn. The feeling persists the rest of the day. He doesn't eat dinner. His sleep is restless. He skips breakfast, and only goes to see Dr Okereke because he knows she'll come and find him if he doesn't. Today is especially fraught. No drugs today. He has to face it all sober and alert.

He has to laugh-- he's gone into hostile enemy territories to perform surgical missions. He's survived being tortured and maimed. And yet, the prospect of walking into that therapy room fills him with terror. The terror infuriates him, and the fury keeps him from giving up. It doesn't make any sense, but not much in his head makes any sense.

The session starts out neutrally enough, with the usual questions. Dr Okereke doesn't mention yesterday's breakthrough, which surprises him. Instead she asks him out of the blue:

"What are you most afraid of?"

He huffs out a breath through his nose, the closest he can manage to laughter, and rolls his eyes. What a stupid question.

"You're laughing. So there is nothing you are afraid of?"

Bucky shakes his head and slouches. He avoids her eyes. He's only afraid of one thing these days, and that one thing is more than enough. Dr Okereke doesn't feel the cold terror he does when he wakes up from a dream where he's been triggered. She doesn't feel the throats of people she loves crushing beneath her hands. He shudders.

"Getting triggered again. Doing something horrible."

"Anything else?"

"No."

"There is nothing else you fear?"

"I've _died_. I've been chewed up and spit out, tortured, and I've done the torturing. What else is there to be afraid of after that?"

"Do you fear death?"

"No. I'm way past that. Sometimes I think it might actually be the best thing for everybody-- me included."

"How do you think your friends would feel about that?"

He shrugs.

"Steve's an idiot. And he's got no room to talk. He's practically fucking suicidal… himself…"

His own problems fade into background noise as Bucky realises with horror the truth of what he's just said. He can still remember Steve's face on the helicarrier, bruised and beaten and hardly recognizable. He knows how many wounds there were on his body-- he ought to know, he put them there. He never lets himself forget that number.

"I sense that you've uncovered something. Would you like to share?"

He swallows hard. He's been telling himself that Steve's a goddamn moron, no self-preservation instincts, never had any to begin with. It hadn't occurred to him before now that Steve has always known exactly what he was doing. Courting death. Daring the universe to snuff him out. He realises with a lurch that that's not the behavior of a courageous man. It's the behavior of a suicidal one.

"D'you think Steve wants to die?" he asks, and his voice trembles.

"You know him far better than I do. What do you think?"

He stares into space for a minute, or maybe it's several minutes. The passage of time doesn't seem to stay constant during these sessions.

"He was ready to die. Not to save me. Because he couldn't. He thought it was over. There was nothing left of me, and…"

Dr Okereke waits a moment for him to continue the thought. Bucky's mind has stalled itself, and it takes him a few minutes to find his way back to what he was thinking.

"He wanted to die. Maybe he always has."

"And why do you think he hasn't?" the doctor asks.

He scoffs.

"Because of me. Because I wouldn't let him."

The irony hits him like a brick wall, but slowly, a brick wall that inches forward a little at a time. Now is the point of impact, and he resists it. The idea that the doctor's been skating around, tracing the outline of, hinting at. It draws him in bit by bit, like a balloon on a string. His throat tightens again, and he swallows hard.

"Because I love him. He's my best friend, and I can't live without him."

"And how do you think Steve feels about you?"

"Same. He told me once that if I got myself killed, he'd march into hell and drag me back himself."

Bucky's mouth wants to smile, but it doesn't quite succeed. It wavers and stumbles on its way to smiling and instead falls down into a hole. He swallows hard.

"I came close," he croaks.

He dares a glance at the doctor, making notes using her _kimoyo_. She makes eye contact.

"Pardon?"

"A few times, actually."

"Would you like to tell me more?"

He shrugs again.

"Just afterwards."

"After what?"

"Just after DC. When I realized who I was. Realized what I'd done. I sat in a cabin in… I don't know, Canada. Middle of fuckin' nowhere. Things were coming back to me. I had nightmares. I had _day_ -mares. Hallucinations, flashbacks, whatever you want to call it. I couldn't tell what was real and what wasn't. So I stuck a gun in my mouth."

Silence settles. Bucky swallows hard around the lump in his throat. He can still taste gun oil in his mouth. The click of the hammer. Knowing exactly what the right angle was to ensure it was instantly fatal. Steeling himself. Taking a deep breath. Then throwing the gun aside and ripping apart the inside of the cabin. A tear runs down his face, and he wipes it away.

"But I couldn't do it. I thought about Steve and all the shit he went through trying to save me. I could picture the look on his face when he found out, and…"

Tears slip down his cheeks, surprising him. He didn't think he was capable of that anymore. He was sure it had been tortured out of him. He grabs a handful of tissues from the box next to his chair. Looks like he'll need them after all.

"Let it come, Bucky. You've spent so long bottling things up. You don't need to do that anymore."

He stares at the floor, undulating under his feet, seeming at once very close and impossibly far away. The wave of tears subsides, back into the sea, and he sniffles.

"Sometimes I hate him for it."

"For giving you a reason to live?"

"For being my only reason not to die."

"Sometimes all we need is one reason," the doctor says.

Bucky ignores her. For a few minutes they sit there in silence.

"Are you aware that survivors of trauma are far more likely to be victims of violence than perpetrators?" she says.

"Yeah well, most _survivors_ don't have a goddamn cybernetic arm and seventy years of brainwashing and training to kill."

"You see yourself as the exception."

"I would say I'm pretty fucking exceptional, wouldn't you?"

He hates the petulant, snotty tone of his voice, but goddammit, he's not some vet with PTSD or a homeless guy who thinks the birds talk to him. He's a menace. The fact that Dr O doesn't flinch when he frowns or watch him over her shoulder just means she's refused to accept reality.

"The word you used yesterday was _monster_. Do you still think that's true?"

"I said it, didn't I?"

It's like being in school again, in the principal's office, being asked to own up to whatever mischief he's been up to. Nine times out of ten it was getting into fights to protect Steve. Kids made fun of Steve, but they feared Bucky. And he liked it.

"You also said that you were _made_. That would imply that what you are is not something you chose."

"Of course I didn't fucking choose it. Who would choose to be like this?"

"It was done against your will."

"Yes!"

"So was any of what happened to you your fault?"

He doesn't answer for a moment. He knows where this is going, and for some reason it makes his heart hammer. He keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

"Was it your fault, Bucky?"

His lips press together. His hands tighten in his lap.

"I know what you're doing."

But Dr Okereke is gently relentless.

"Was it your fault, what happened to you?"

His throat thickens. It's a bit like drowning, like being knocked down by a wave and unable to get to the surface. Trapped on the ocean floor and pressed down by an invisible hand. His mouth tries to stay still, to be the tight straight line it usually is during his sessions. He can feel it breaking. He manages to get a single word out.

"No."

"I would like to hear you say it."

"… it wasn't my fault."

"Again?"

"It-- wasn't--"

The rest of the sentence is garbled by tears that burst before Bucky can even try to clench them back. He sobs into his hand and suddenly wishes he had the metal one to punch into the wall next to him. Leave a few fist-shaped indentations in the steel. Instead he has to sit here and cry, exposed, naked. He hates her, hates this woman who's probing into old wounds, ripping away scar tissue to leave him defenseless, pink and raw, in a world that's already chewed him up and spit him out more than once.

The pain and vulnerability are easy to transform into anger. Rage, he can do. He can see himself destroying this little room, picking up the chair beneath him and slamming it into the walls, into the viewing window. Shattering safety glass. Bending steel. Even with one arm he's inhumanly strong. He loses himself in the thought of it for a few moments, just utterly destroying everything within arm's reach. He's half-convinced that he did it, really smashed everything up, when he hears a small sound as the doctor clears her throat.

Bucky sniffles and looks up. He expects to see Dr Okereke backed into a corner of the room, looking frightened. Instead, she's sitting exactly where she was before. She doesn't even look like she's shifted her weight.

"Would you like some water?" she asks.

He nods mutely. She steps out of the room for a moment and comes back with a tumbler of water, hands it to him. Then she sits back down in her chair. Bucky takes a sip, certain it's going to come right back up. It doesn't. He swallows and drinks a little more. He pulls a wad of tissues out of the box at hand to clean himself up. Dr Okereke waits, silently, until he manages to sit up again. He can't quite look her in the eye.

"We can stop here, if you like," she says. "This has been a very difficult session for you."

Instead of answering he takes another drink. He looks down at the tumbler in his hands, at the warping of his hand through the glass. He has the sudden urge to close his fist and crush it. He doesn't. He sets the cup down and stares into his lap. He waits for her to press him. _Mission report_. Orders. Command. A slap to the face. He flinches. When he looks up, Dr Okereke is still watching him. It takes him a minute to catch on that she's waiting for him to answer.

"I'm tired," he says, and suddenly he is.

"You've done very well today, Bucky. You've been very brave."

He snorts.

"Yeah, crying like a baby. Real brave."

She leans forward, suddenly stern in a way that makes him recoil.

"Listen to me. You have a completely different perspective than most of us, but you must remember that there are many forms of bravery. Bravery is not simply about putting yourself in harm's way. That is simply recklessness."

He thinks of Steve, and his lip curls.

"Bravery is about facing the things that frighten you, and for you, those things are inside your own mind. You're afraid of becoming something terrible again. But you are not that thing anymore. Every day you move further away from being that thing."

"But the words--"

"No one here is going to say those words to you. And soon it won't matter if they do, because you will free yourself from them."

_Free yourself_. Not _we will free you_. He knows it's a deliberate strategy to make him feel like he has more agency-- he figured it out early on. _Free_. He tries the word out as a whisper and lets it hang in the air. He can't remember the last time he felt free. Free to make his own choices, free to decide. He knows that part of his treatment has been devised for just that: to give him a sense of his own agency. It's a charade. He still can't quite trust that it's true.

He knows, deep down, in the part of his brain that's always figured these things out long before the rest of his conscious mind, that it's another fortification. Powerlessness is hard to accept. To admit that he was a victim, that he was used and abused for so long with no way to escape, feels like a defeat. It's horrifying to accept, somehow more so than all the deaths and carnage he's caused. If he can tell himself that it was his fault somehow, that he did something to deserve it, it gives him a tiny shred of power back. If it's his fault, the world doesn't seem like such a brutal and unjust place, where awful things happen to good people for no reason except the essential indifference of the universe.

He leaves the lab and makes for the gym. He needs to punch something.


	6. Is it not monstrous

The procedure begins very early in the morning, before dawn. T'Challa is always up at that hour anyway, so he stops by the lab to check in. Bucky is pale and drawn with worry.

"You're in excellent hands," T'Challa says, and means it.

Bucky tries to smile. It looks more like a fault line.

"You can still choose not to go through with it."

"I know," Bucky manages.

His voice is hoarse.

"Get Dr Okereke," T'Challa murmurs to the nearest technician.

"No!" Bucky says. "No. I need to do this."

T'Challa nods. He leaves Bucky in the care of the technicians and nurses and goes about his business. His assistant Dayo appears just before 8am to provide him with a schedule of the day's meetings.

He checks in with them several times over the course of the day, perhaps too many times. He begins to sense the scrutiny of others whenever he moves in the direction of the lab. Many of them already think that harboring Bucky here is a mistake, a terrible one with consequences that have yet to unfold. Perhaps they're right. But that doesn't change the fact that it was the right thing to do.

In the lab, on the other side of the glass, Bucky is calm, even when a short in the damaged electronics in his shoulder shoots sparks. One of the engineers swears in Wakandan. The muscles in Bucky's jaw spasm, but the blank expression on his face never changes. He could be getting his nails manicured.

They call him when the procedure is finished, well after midnight. As far as they are able to tell, it was a success. The arm is operational. They will run a full battery of tests to ensure the new arm is both completely functional and comfortable for him.

T'Challa gets out of bed-- he wasn't asleep anyway-- and makes his way through the complex to the recovery room. He glances at the monitor. It looks like Bucky's chosen the ocean setting. He smiles. He presses his hand to the panel by the door, which analyses not only his handprint but his heart rate and body temperature. The panel turns green, and the door opens.

"How are--"

Bucky is sitting on the bed, crosslegged, scribbling furiously in a notebook with his hair hanging down around his face. Behind it T'Challa can see the tight line of his mouth pulled taut. He doesn't look up. His right hand moves across the pages with frantic speed. His left arm is once again a shining thing of metal and electronics. T'Challa keeps his distance to give the man his privacy and waits until he finishes writing. Waits for Bucky to look up at him.

"How are you feeling?" T'Challa asks again.

"Okay."

His face is a little haggard. It was a long procedure, and probably physically demanding in a way that T'Challa cannot begin to imagine.

"And the arm?"

Bucky rolls the shoulder and flexes the fingers.

"It's great. I never really noticed the delay with the old arm. Tiny, fraction of a second. But this one's a little faster. Guess technology has improved in the last eighty years."

He smiles. It ought to him look a little less ghostly, but it doesn't. T'Challa sits next to him with one knee on the bed and the other foot on the floor.

"Will the skin be a separate procedure?" he asks. "I would have expected them to attach that along with everything else."

Bucky's smile drops. He closes the notebook.

"I asked them not to," he says.

T'Challa nods. He does not ask why. If Bucky feels like telling him, he will, in his own time. He sits for a while, allowing the room to be quiet except for the gentle artificial rhythm of the ocean.

"They did excellent work," T'Challa says. "Would you like to take it for a test drive tomorrow?"

He expects another smile, but Bucky looks at the floor.

"I don't know if that's a good idea. I might…"

He doesn't need to finish the sentence. T'Challa puts a hand on his shoulder.

"You cannot spend the rest of your life in this room. I can have the Dora Milaje escort you, if you like. They are nearly as formidable as I am."

In truth, T'Challa would like to see how Bucky would fare against one of them-- or two. Nakia in particular would be happy to take him on-- she is still mistrustful of Bucky and has not shied away from saying so. Bucky has to have noticed the long, level stare she gives him whenever she sees him. T'Challa pats him on his newly rebuilt shoulder.

"Come, let's take a walk."

He plucks at Bucky's bionic hand. After a few moments Bucky edges off the bed and follows him.

*

A low rumble rolls across the air, and Bucky's mind supplies nearly a dozen weapons and bombs that could have made the sound before he identifies it as thunder. He looks out the window at the sky. Clouds are rolling in, heavy with rain. Bucky smiles. He likes thunderstorms, he discovered a while back. Something about them soothes him, although he doesn't care to examine that idea too closely.

Thunder cracks like a tree branch snapping, and T'Challa visibly jumps. His eyes are huge. His whole body is tense.

"It's just thunder," Bucky says, only realizing after it's out of his mouth what a stupid thing it is to say.

He watches T'Challa relax-- only a little-- and frowns. It takes a little longer for T'Challa to accept that there is no threat and stand down, and even then, the tension doesn't leave his body. Bucky reaches out-- slowly-- and places his hand on T'Challa's shoulder. Now that he's touching him, the tremble in his body is more apparent.

"Are you afraid of storms?"

He didn't think T'Challa was afraid of anything. It's somehow both comforting and terrifying to think that might not be true.

"No," T'Challa says finally. "I just…"

He swallows hard. He can't seem to finish the sentence, or catch his breath. The shaking intensifies, and his knees buckle. Bucky catches him and helps him stay on his feet.

"Whoa, hey," Bucky says softly. "Hey, hey, come on…"

He puts his arm around T'Challa and helps him to a nearby sofa. He's very glad they're alone together. He doubts T'Challa wants even the Dora Milaje to see him this way.

"Bend over, put your head between your knees, that's it. Breathe. It sounds stupid, but _breathe_."

He rubs T'Challa's back in a way he hopes is soothing and listens to him gasp for breath. He says nothing. After a minute or two, T'Challa sits back up. The gasping has slowed, but he still looks wan and wide-eyed. Bucky puts an arm around him and pulls him into a hug. He's not sure what else to do. He holds on for a few seconds and then sits back to look at T'Challa's face.

"Is your heart racing? Chest tight?"

T'Challa nods, mute.

"Feel like you're gonna die? Numbness in your arms?"

Another nod. Bucky sighs.

"It's called a panic attack, pal. Welcome to the club."

He keeps his arm around T'Challa and hugs him, lets the silence fall again, broken by quieter rumbles of thunder now. Finally T'Challa seems able to compose himself. He sits back and takes a deep shaking breath.

"I would like to resign my membership, please."

Bucky smiles and squeezes his shoulder.

"Maybe you should talk to Dr Okereke."

T'Challa shakes his head.

"I'm fine."

Bucky rolls his eyes.

"Like hell you are. I've seen that look before. You nearly went into homicidal murder mode when that thunder rolled through."

T'Challa stiffens and leans away from him ever so slightly. Bucky lets his hand fall away. He averts his eyes. In his lap, his hands twist their fingers together.

"I don't need your help," T'Challa says.

"I didn't say you did. I just offered it. Jesus, and I thought Steve was bad."

For a moment neither of them says anything. Bucky knows he's sulking and doesn't give a shit. It's hard enough as it is to be human again without somebody taking it badly when he tries to demonstrate some empathy.

"I'm sorry," T'Challa says.

Bucky shrugs. He's not sure why this has upset him so much, but then, his emotions these days aren't exactly predictable. It doesn't take much to set him off, or to trigger a crying jag. It's probably something to do with Dr O's therapies. That, and the massive amounts of hallucinogens. He could go for one of those sessions right about now. Even a bad one full of blood and horror somehow seems better than sitting here.

"I seem to have developed a… reflex, in response to noises like that. Since Vienna."

The bombing. Guilt supplants the kindling irritation in Bucky's chest. He hadn't thought about it until now, the scars that trauma might have left on T'Challa. Too busy with his own.

"D'you miss him?"

"Every single day. I miss his wisdom and his patience. I had no idea just how much he endured. Not until it was too late to acknowledge it."

"I'm sorry."

"For what? It wasn't your fault."

Bucky shrugs again.

"I just am. The world's a shitty place, and I helped make it that way-- I mean, I could make you a list, if you want."

He manages a bitter smile.

"This may not help," T'Challa says. "But I do believe that there is a place in this world for all of us. We all serve a purpose."

"And if that purpose is being a stone cold killer?"

T'Challa shrugs.

"Killing is as much a part of life as staying alive. We insulate ourselves from the reality of it because we find it immoral, or distasteful, or horrifying. We like to think ourselves above that sort of primal impulse, until we come face to face with it and have to make a choice: to do what is expected of us, morally, to be 'good people' or to survive."

Bucky hums low in his throat. The tears start before he can think to blink them back.

"Steve was ready to die for me back in DC. Even with all the shit in my head, I couldn't let him. I couldn't let him…" Bucky swallows hard and rubs away the tears on his cheeks with the back of his hand."He always makes that choice. Always has."

"You are not Steve. And if I may be blunt, Steve is an idiot."

Bucky snorts.

"You're not wrong there. Never did have much of a self-preservation instinct. Christ, especially now. Which is ironic, given what a goddamn mother hen he can be. Someone needs to get him a dog or a baby or something."

T'Challa laughs.

"Perhaps several."

Maybe then he wouldn't be so willing to die, Bucky thinks. Is that why he does this? Takes risks, keeps going on missions? Because he thinks he's got nothing to live for? He's given up the shield, given up being Captain America, but still he hasn't stopped. Still striving for truth and justice, and putting his life on the line.

"Steve would be a great dad," Bucky muses.

"I sense an addition to that sentence."

"Anyone ever told you that being smart is annoying?"

"Yes. But you were saying?"

"I don't think he ever will be, and that makes me kinda sad."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure if you wanna make kids of your own, you have to find someone to make them with. But doing that would mean taking time out of his busy self-flagellation and saving the world schedule. He never takes any time for himself. It's like he's perpetually convinced that he doesn't deserve it."

"Deserve what?"

"Take your pick. Happiness. Love. It's fuckin' pathological. I did tell you he was raised Catholic, right?"

T'Challa smiles.

"I have heard that. And what about you?"

Bucky frowns.

"What do you mean?

T'Challa shakes his head.

"You're very perceptive when it comes to Steve, but not quite so good at turning that perception towards yourself."

"Look, I understand myself just fine. It's just. There are so many things about me that Steve wouldn't understand. I can see it in his eyes sometimes."

"What do you mean?"

Bucky shrugs.

"He's got this… incredible sense of morality."

"Some might call that self-righteousness."

Bucky laughs, points in acknowledgment.

"Oh, he's incredibly self-righteous. But it's more like… he wants so much to believe the best of me… and I don't know how to tell him that I'm not that person. I probably never was."

"Bucky, the things you did--"

"I don't mean _that_. Well. Some of it. But it started before that. Started with the war, really. There's shit inside my head that I'd never tell him about, because I'm fucking terrified of what he'd say."

T'Challa cocks his head.

"What do you mean? After everything that's happened, what could you possibly say for Steve to change his opinion of you?"

Bucky sighs. He runs his hands through his hair to disguise the trembling.

"In the Army, I was a sniper. Even before Hydra, before Steve found me. And I was good at it. Really fuckin' good at it, if we're being honest. It's like… I've always had a gift for killing."

"Being lethal doesn't make you a bad person, Bucky."

"But it's not just being good at it, it's… I think I _like_ it. And that scares the shit out of me. I don't get off on it or anything-- and I'd never kill anybody who didn't deserve it. Well-- now, at least, not if I had a choice. It's, I don't know. Satisfying-- and I know that sounds fuckin' awful, but-- the satisfaction of a job well done. And that job just happens to be killing people. Why am I like that?"

T'Challa places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

"I don't know. But that does not make you a monster."

Bucky shrugs.

"Maybe. But it's still something Steve would never understand. It's still this dark thing inside me, and sometimes I think Hydra saw it. They recognized something they could use. Maybe that's the only reason I'm still alive."

"You are still alive because of a complicated chain of events-- a mixture of circumstances, luck, and-- I think-- your own powerful will to live."

"I don't deserve to live," Bucky mutters.

It might be the first time he's ever said it aloud, although it's on a loop in his brain all day. T'Challa squeezes his shoulder, hard enough to hurt this time, and Bucky looks at him.

"Then it's just as well that being alive is not founded on what we do or do not deserve."


	7. His liberty is full of threats to all

Bucky is in the gym well before nine a.m. He can't sleep, so he's trying out his new arm on the heavy bag, and if he's honest, trying to work out a little frustration. The arm is working perfectly, and he's trying to reacclimate himself to the weight on his left shoulder again. He's read the treatment plan-- counterconditioning, hallucinogens, hypnotics, daily therapy. It looks good on paper, but will it work? He has his doubts. Part of him is sure that they'll never get that horrible killswitch out of him. It's buried too deep, under too many scars. All it'll take is someone saying the words again, and he'll be gone.

Having the arm back makes him feel a little less vulnerable. But he knows what he's capable of. He hits the bag a little harder, thinking about Berlin. That smug bastard Zemo, reading off the words and knowing there was nothing Bucky could do, no way to resist it. The rage at knowing what was coming and powerless to stop it. And then, blank space. Waking up exhausted with his metal arm in a vise. The look on Sam's face. The look on anyone's face. Steve's got too much invested in him to be wary-- and Steve was ready to die for him even when he _was_ the Soldier. Probably still is. Fucking. Stupid. Reckless. Idiot, the words punctuated with hits on the bag.

Bucky's left hand slams into the bag, and the chain snaps. The bag comes loose and lands twenty feet away. He sighs. He's barely broken a sweat.

"I can see we'll have to reinforce the straps," T'Challa says from behind him, and he jumps.

"Yeah well, I don't think they design these with guys like me in mind."

He turns around. He's not really in the mood for company, but after everything T'Challa's done for him, he doesn't want to be surly. He _feels_ surly, though. He feels like he may have just made a huge mistake, set the timer on a bomb, loaded a gun. He hasn't slept, and his whole being feels itchy with it. He avoids making eye contact. He can't quite bring himself to say that he wants to be alone, but maybe T'Challa will read it in his body language and have mercy on him.

"Are you all right, Bucky?"

It has to be a rhetorical question-- he's pretty visibly not all right.

"Don't know if I made the right decision," he mutters.

"What do you mean? Are you concerned about the treatment?"

He shakes his head, tries to find something he can focus his attention on so that he doesn't have to look at T'Challa. He settles for his toes. The first toe is longer than the big toe, he notices, and slightly curved to the right. Does that mean anything?

" _Bucky_ ," T'Challa says, a bit more firmly.

He manages to drag his eyes up from the floor and look at T'Challa. The Black Panther doesn't look wary. His body isn't poised for a fight. He looks… concerned. It makes Bucky's chest ache.

"I don't wanna hurt anyone else," he sighs.

Not entirely true: there are plenty of people he wants to hurt. But none of them are here. T'Challa steps forward and takes Bucky's hand-- the vibranium one-- in both of his. He looks Bucky right in the eye.

"I don't think you will."

Bucky tries to swallow down the thickness in his throat. He breathes in deeply and lets it out. T'Challa slaps him on his metal shoulder.

"Come, a bit of physical activity will take your mind off it."

He takes up a fighting stance, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Bucky laughs grimly and rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, I'm sure that'll help."

His voice is sullen and heavy, and he hates that. He also hates the way his body responds without his permission, balancing its weight and leading with the metal arm.

"I'm not afraid, Bucky. If I thought you were a danger to me, or to anyone else, I would have kept you in stasis."

"You don't know what I'm capable of."

"I've read the files. I know exactly what you are capable of."

"Steve says the same shit--"

"Steve is your _friend_ ," T'Challa says, a little forcefully. "He loves you very much, and he is blinded by that. I have no such bias. I will not do anything that I think will put myself or my people in danger. I would kill you first."

He looks T'Challa right in the eye. He means it. And there's no question that T'Challa is probably the most dangerous man in the world, even without those claws. He absolutely would kill Bucky if he had to, if it came down to it. The thought actually makes him feel a little better.

"But what if this time I'm smart? What if I pretend to be normal?"

He hates the note of panic rising in his voice. T'Challa stops and stands up straight.

"On that rooftop in Bucharest, you were terrified. You were running for your life."

The corner of his mouth turns up just a little, and Bucky eyes him. His aversion to sparring drops a few notches.

"Yeah well, you blame me?"

"Then, later, when Zemo used the trigger words on you, it was different. You were relentless, brutal. Formidable. But empty. The same body, but a different person. I would know that person if I saw him again."

"But how do you know?"

"Because the light in your eyes goes out."

Bucky swallows and looks away.

"Besides," T'Challa adds. "Even with both arms you are no match for me."

Bucky snorts.

"You're not wearing your fancy suit right now. Makes a difference."

"Does it?"

T'Challa makes a surprise attack, lightning fast with a kick at his head, and Bucky only just holds him off with the cybernetic arm. He gives T'Challa a reproachful look from behind it. T'Challa just smiles. He hops back and resumes his stance.

"Let's see how well you do when up against something that is not a bag," the king says.

He's needling Bucky, and goddammit, it's working. He wants to wipe that little smile off T'Challa's face, and to be honest, he's kinda wanted a rematch ever since Berlin. Bucky rolls his shoulders and neck, squares up.

"Come on then."

By the time T'Challa takes mercy on him and calls a halt to it, Bucky is breathing hard and wobbling on his feet. He tells himself it's just being out of practice, too long in cryo, something like that. Definitely not that he's outmatched. Bucky bends over, hands on his knees, hair in his face. He takes a deep breath and stands up straight.

"Are you all right?" T'Challa asks "Do you need anything?"

Bucky glares at him, but as far as he can tell, T'Challa is being genuine.

"No, I'll be fine. Just… out of practice, I guess. Too long in cold storage."

T'Challa claps him on the back and leads him to a kitchenette. He takes two bottles out of a fridge and hands one to Bucky. Bucky raises an eyebrow. The bottle's unlabeled, and whatever's in it is a suspicious shade of green.

"It replaces electrolytes," T'Challa says. "Vitamins. It won't kill you. I am reasonably sure."

Bucky shoots him a dark look, then shrugs and takes a swig.

"Huh. It's pretty good. Reminds me of something…"

"Spirulina?"

"What the hell is that?"

T'Challa laughs.

"Never mind."

There's a changing room with showers adjoining the gym, presumably so His Highness doesn't have to walk the other end of the palace a sweaty, smelly mess. Couldn't let his subjects see him that way. His shirt clinging to his chest. His skin gleaming. T'Challa strips the shirt off and tosses it aside, and Bucky blinks. He knew objectively that T'Challa was built, even without the contours of the Black Panther suit on, but he wasn't really prepared to see him like this, sheened with sweat and moving with casual grace, like a real person. Bucky tracks him out of the corner of his eye as he moves, while he's pretending to inspect his own body for bruises, then drags his eyes back to the floor.

It's been a long time since Bucky felt awkward in a locker room. Been a long time for a lot of things, come to that. He's completely forgotten how to handle human feelings. Needs. Attraction. His face warms. _Goddammit Barnes, don't be ridiculous, pull yourself together_.

He skulks-- there's no other word for it-- into the shower room and finds the shower furthest from the door. He turns it up hot, hotter than he should, and stands with his head bowed as the spray beats against his back. A nice hot shower is one of the things Bucky likes best, now that he's more or less back in the land of the living. He'll stand there for ages just letting the water wash over him. He wonders briefly if people are allowed to stand under the waterfall next to the palace. Maybe he'll ask. Water runs down his scalp and into his face. He loses himself for a while in daydreams.

*

Quick movement catches T'Challa's eye, and he looks up to see Bucky moving towards the showers with peculiar haste, towel around his waist, listing a little to the left. There are scars on the chiseled muscles of his back. Some of them are obvious cuts, others-- circular ones-- likely gunshot wounds. Eighty years of damage. How long did they let him heal after something like that? How much pain did he suffer? How many injuries did he sustain with no one but himself to treat them? And the arm. There's no question that it must be connected to his nervous system. Does he feel pain in it? Did he feel it when his arm was obliterated? Is he in pain still? Dr Okereke has said that only Bucky truly knows the extent of his suffering. It's possible he has nerve and joint damage. It's possible that he is nearly always in pain. And yet, T'Challa remembers the blank expression on his face during the procedure. As if it were nothing to him. What horrors he must have survived, that pain is something to simply ignore, as one might ignore an insect.

T'Challa shakes his head. Perhaps someday he'll find out, if Bucky wants to tell him. In the meantime, it would be prudent for him to mind his own business. He selects a shower across the room from Bucky, to give him space. Occasionally he glances over to check on him. Bucky has barely moved. The metal arm is braced against the tile wall, and Bucky's head hangs while water sheets down his body. There are other scars visible now-- a slash on his flank, long since healed, arcing over his buttocks to the small of his back. Does Bucky remember all those wounds? Does he have a catalogue of every scar, of when it happened, how it happened, where and who? Or does he prefer not to remember?

The muscles in Bucky's back flex as he rolls his right shoulder. He landed on it badly earlier. T'Challa isn't concerned-- he's in excellent physical shape, despite the injuries. What did he do for the two years he was on the run? It's hard to imagine him going to a gym. The arm would be a little conspicuous. Perhaps that's why Bucky was so quick to get into the shower-- he's still badly scarred where the arm is attached. The tan of his skin splits into pink and white scar tissue, all around the edge of the metal, a different sheen. And yet, he declined to have it covered with Dr Okereke's artificial skin. Bucky had an opportunity to normalise himself, at least superficially, and opted not to.

T'Challa turns off the shower and leaves Bucky to his soapy meditations. He dresses and waits for Bucky in the gym rather than the locker room. He doesn't want to stare or make Bucky feel self-conscious. Twenty minutes pass. T'Challa is just about to walk back into the showers to check on him when he emerges, wearing loose trousers and a tank top, towel around his neck, hair combed back.

"By the way," he says, running a hand through his hair. "Thanks a lot for not telling me that it's considered rude not to say hello to everyone you see."

T'Challa pauses.

"I'm sorry, it didn't occur to me. Though you are not Wakandan, so I would think they would understand."

"They probably do. I just assumed _molo_ was some rude word for white people."

T'Challa laughs, feels bad for laughing, and then laughs again even harder. Bucky side-eyes him with deep reproach, but the corner of his mouth threatens to turn up and betray his amusement. T'Challa claps a hand on his shoulder. He thumbs a tear from the corner of his eye.

"Oh, I'm sorry Bucky. I should have told you. _Molo_ means hello."

Bucky rolls his eyes.

"Yes, I know that _now_. After about the fifteenth time it happened, I looked it up."

"I'm very sorry. I suppose with everything happening, I just didn't think to fill you in on those sorts of things."

Bucky shrugs.

"Dr O thinks it's good for me, talking to people. But most people here can't speak English, only Wakandan."

T'Challa smiles.

"Do not confuse _can't_ with _won't_ , my friend. We are very proud of our history and culture-- and our language. You should try to learn it. You speak many languages already-- I think you would pick it up quickly."

"I've tried," Bucky grumbles.

T'Challa blinks at him, surprised, and surprised at how pleased he is to hear it.

"Really?"

"I learned how to say a few things. Don't really talk to people past that point. I use _andiqondi_ a lot."

T'Challa throws an arm around Bucky's shoulder, warmed. His pronunciation is terrible, but that's to be expected.

"I can't get the goddamn clicking right."

"Would you like me to find you a tutor?"

" _No_ ," Bucky says quickly.

"Are you sure? They say learning new things is an excellent way to reprogram neural pathways."

"Leave the medical advice to Dr O, why don't you."

T'Challa frowns. He's not sure what he's said to make Bucky defensive-- perhaps he didn't need to say anything at all. Since waking up and beginning his treatment, Bucky has been… not _volatile_ exactly, so much as extremely sensitive in unexpected ways. There are times that his impassive demeanour gives way to rage, or hurt, and while he generally says nothing, T'Challa can still see it in his face.

"It's funny that you should mention her. She said that you might like a change of scenery. Something more comfortable?"

It's entirely possible that Bucky would prefer to stay in his recovery room, despite the medical associations and the preponderance of brushed metal walls. He might feel secure there. Safe. Bucky shrugs.

"What I mean is, would you prefer to stay somewhere a bit more… homelike?"

"What do you mean?" Bucky says slowly.

"Come, let me show you."

*

Puzzled, Bucky follows him out of the palace and a little ways away, towards a low white bungalow with a tiled roof. T'Challa pulls a set of keys from his pocket and unlocks the door, then gestures Bucky inside. His stomach sinks. It's empty.

"Nice place," he says, wary.

"A large delegation from Kenya just left, so the house is unused at present. Dr Okereke says it might be better for you if you don't feel as though you live in a hospital. Home is a very important concept, and while we cannot reproduce Brooklyn, we can provide you with something a little more personal."

"No, this is… you really don't need to--"

"Come, let me show you around."

The house is nice. It's cosy. Roomy without feeling empty, furnished enough that it doesn't feel like an anonymous condo in a stack somewhere. Bucky wouldn't be surprised if T'Challa himself picked out the decor. He catches himself scanning the edges of ceilings, sizes up where the best places to plant surveillance devices are. There's nothing he can see, but then, T'Challa's a very clever man. If he wanted to keep a constant eye on someone, he'd be discreet about it. Bucky's bionic hand tangles with the flesh and blood hand, tightening and wringing until he actually pinches something. He shakes out his right hand and hopes T'Challa didn't notice.

"There's also a proper kitchen, if you want to use it."

It's mortifying, the kindness and solicitousness the man continues to show him. Somehow it makes him even more uncomfortable than Steve's blind loyalty. Maybe it's because Bucky is always so keenly aware of how easy it would be to take advantage of. Maybe it's because of something else that he doesn't really want to examine too closely right now. T'Challa holds out the keys. Bucky keeps his arms wrapped around himself. It's too much, but he's too tired to protest.

"If you prefer to stay in the medical wing, that is fine too. I will let you decide."

He drops the keys on a nearby table and then excuses himself, leaving Bucky standing in the midst of a living room that doesn't belong to him. He sighs. Would it be rude to say no? He's filled himself in on some Wakandan customs, but this wasn't really in the guide. How does one politely decline something like this? He wanders into the bedroom.

The backpack with his notebooks in it sits in the middle of the field of white that is the bed. For a moment he stares at it, disbelieving. He claps his hand over his mouth. He chokes, and then before he can think about finding a tissue, the deluge starts. He stands at the side of the bed and weeps into his open hands. He cries like he hasn't cried in a long time, great wracking sobs that seem to shatter his whole being. He pulls up the hem of his shirt and bawls into it like a little kid.

Eventually the tears and sobbing wind down to a serious case of hiccups. Bucky looks down at his sodden shirt and makes a face. He pulls it off and throws it into a hamper in the corner. He's already had a shower, but he's tempted to take another. Or maybe a bath. God, when _was_ the last time he had a bath? He doesn't want to think about it. He checks out the bathroom instead. The medicine cabinet is fully stocked with aspirin, toothpaste, hair pins-- there's even a fancy electric beard trimmer in a drawer that Bucky has no idea how to use. More lotions and scented soaps than he knows what to do with. They all smell too strongly of flowers or fruit or whatever godawful thing they put in soap now. He's pleased to find a simple bar of soap. He takes it out of the wrapper. It's black and smells faintly of coconut and something he can't identify. He puts it down and goes back to the bedroom.

He sits crosslegged on the end of the bed and digs through his backpack. He leafs through the notebooks, a physical representation of his memory. Each page, his best recollection of something from his past, layered over with where he was when he remembered it. Basic training at Camp McCoy, the way his drill sergeant used to spray spit when he was really pissed off. Bucky can't remember his name, but he does remember that they used to call him Firehose behind his back.

Layered over that, like varnish over old paint, the cafe in Kiev where he sat down to write it all out. Black coffee, _pampushky_. The tiny elderly woman he helped across the street with her shopping cart, who turned to him and said, _такой хороший мальчик_. He smiled at her and said, _С удовольствием_. She giggled and tottered away. It baffles him, the way that sometimes it feels so natural to joke and kid and flirt, and then other times it's like trying to read in another language.

Then there are the bad things. The nasty memories lie beneath the surface of his mind like rotten wood under layers of paint. The ones about Siberia. About his missions. Things it made his hands shake to write. Bucky makes sure to flip past those pages. He knows where they are in each notebook. He's been through them all a hundred times. All the same, a glimpse of red as he's turning past a bad section makes him shut his eyes and clench his jaw. He takes a deep breath.

"It's over," he murmurs quietly. "You're safe."

But is he ever _really_ safe? His chest tightens. Sometimes he thinks about what would happen if they found him again-- not the US, but Hydra, or whatever's left of it. He has nightmares about being dragged away, kicking and screaming, and thrown in some subterranean basement cell. And those are the mild ones. There are worse things than imprisonment-- much worse.

"Stop it."

He lets the notebook drop, closed, in his lap, and presses his hands to his temples. He takes another deep breath and looks for something else to focus on. There's a bedside table with a supply of fresh notebooks on it. He reaches over to grab one and the nearest available writing tool and opens it in his lap. _Good things. Think of a good thing_. Hot showers. Duvets. Bunny rabbits. Steve. He starts writing, hoping like hell that this won't be one of the ones that starts off good and then dives into misery further down the page.

> _people can be kind. people besides steve. forgot what it's like to feel_
> 
> _not safe. never safe. but ok. cared for? not running. not hiding._
> 
> _allowed to be here. welcomed._

He swallows a lump in his throat and keeps writing as the tears blur the words on the page. This is the most he's cried in a very long time, maybe ever. Since the fall from the train. Since the experiments. Since he went into a frozen chrysalis and came out as Hydra's malevolent butterfly. And what is he now? He is the Winter Soldier-- _soldat_ \-- and he is Bucky. Not one or the other but a weird fucked-up mixture of both. He's a broken, damaged human being. But he _is_ a human being. Not a weapon. Not an Asset. Not anymore. That's something.

He speaks to the silence, his voice raw: "You don't own me anymore."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **pampushky** \- pastry
> 
> **такой хороший мальчик (Ty takoy khoroshiy mal'chik)** \- Such a good boy
> 
> **С удовольствием барышня(s udovol'stviyem, baryshnya)** \- My pleasure, miss


	8. They withered all when my father died

It's been many months since T'Challa last saw his younger sister-- it was at their father's funeral, in point of fact. It's not a pleasant thing to remember. They spoke little, and what they did say was strangulated by grief and rage. It pains him to think of the murderous fury in his heart then. The single-minded sense of purpose with which he sought out the Winter Soldier. To kill him. It is a lucky thing for all of them that Steve was there to stop him.

He and Shuri spoke on the phone later, after Siberia, after Bucky went into stasis. He explained to Shuri the real circumstances of what had happened, the insane quest for vengeance of one man and the toll it took on all of them. The debt he felt, and still feels, to Bucky, not just for trying to murder him but because he was so easily fooled. He had been so quick to accept that it was Bucky who had done it, and he is still ashamed of himself for that. A king should know better.

T'Challa stands at the railing of a balcony and looks down. The palace is fairly busy. People cross back and forth in various degrees of haste. Bucky is down in the atrium, sitting very still on a bench. He has one of his notebooks out, and the only movement is his hand writing in it at breakneck speed. From this distance it's impossible to tell what language he's writing in. Can he even read what he's written afterwards? T'Challa watches him for a few moments.

He turns around, and Shuri appears in the doorway wearing an electric yellow dress that makes her glow like the sun. It suits her. She pauses there and performs a little curtsey with her head bowed. T'Challa walks towards her, picks her up and spins around to make her laugh, sets her down again.

"You seem well," she says. "Being king suits you."

"I am not certain I agree with that, but thank you. You look beautiful. Are you growing your hair out?"

He touches the tight curls on her head, a little longer than they were when he last saw her.

"A little. It's impossible to find a good hairdresser at school," she says, rolling her eyes.

She looks down into the courtyard from the alcove where they're standing. Bucky is sat with his legs folded up under him, scribbling in one of his notebooks. He's wearing long sleeves to make the arm less conspicuous.

"Who is that?" Shuri asks.

T'Challa debates just how to answer that question.

"My friend Bucky."

The smile drops from her face. Shuri says nothing for a few moments, staring down at him. Bucky is absorbed in whatever he's writing, oblivious. His jaw is set in concentration. His hair is tied back to keep it out of his eyes, although a few stray locks have escaped. Something tightens in T'Challa's stomach. Finally, she speaks again.

"He's very handsome. For an American."

Her voice is weighted in a way that T'Challa recognises, an equal mix of genuine intrigue and sisterly teasing. He frowns at her and takes her arm to lead her away. His life is complicated enough without Shuri contributing to it.

"Come, let's go to tea. I'm hungry."

"Introduce me to him."

T'Challa sighs.

"Shuri, don't you think the poor man has suffered enough?"

She twists her mouth into a little moue and glares at him.

"I've come all this way to visit you, and this is how you behave. Demonstrate those kingly manners you have."

She pokes him in the chest. He takes a moment to assess the situation. Faced with the prospect of what Shuri might say to Bucky if she comes across him on her own, T'Challa decides to dispel the mystique and introduce them. Maybe she'll find him rude and unpleasant. Their uncle S'Yan certainly does. The two of them go down to the ground floor and then out into the bright atrium.

Bucky looks up briefly from whatever he's writing, then back down. His head jerks back up again with a broad dazzling smile. It makes T'Challa's heart hurt a little. He returns it without thinking, and Shuri elbows him in the ribs. Bucky's notebook slaps closed. He pulls the elastic around it to secure it, quickly tucks it against his side.

"This is my sister, Shuri," T'Challa says. "She's home from university for a few days."

"Pleasure to meet you-- uhhmm, ma'am? Your Highness? Princess?"

He takes Shuri's hand and bends down to kiss it. Shuri grins at T'Challa, then restrains it to a friendly smile as Bucky straightens back up.

"Please, call me Shuri."

<He's even more handsome up close> she says in Wakandan.

T'Challa eyes her and hopes Bucky won't ask what she said. He's been trying to learn some Wakandan, but his progress is slow, thank god. Bucky barely seems to have noticed Shuri spoke at all. He's preoccupied with something, and T'Challa frowns a little at his disquiet. His eyes dart around, to them, up, away, down, every direction. The frame of his body seems shrunken in on itself, as if he's trying to be as small as possible.

"Would you like to have tea with us?" Shuri asks.

Bucky's eyes dart to T'Challa for help as he stammers.

"I, uh, I'm not sure--"

"That's--" T'Challa interjects. "Bucky is very busy, I'm sure. Isn't it almost time for your meeting?"

Bucky looks at him with palpable gratitude.

"Yeah-- yes, I do. Have a meeting. I'd love to, but. It's very nice to meet you, though, Shuri. Ma'am."

He drawls her name a little with his American Rs. It would be irritating from someone T'Challa disliked, but Bucky makes it seem charming. He excuses himself and exits as quickly as he can, to T'Challa's immense relief. Shuri turns to look at him with an eyebrow raised.

"What on earth was that about?"

"Perhaps he finds you as annoying as I do?"

Shuri flicks his chest with her fingertips. T'Challa catches her hand, then gives it a squeeze. Trouble avoided, he takes her to tea, where he carries on a relatively one-sided conversation about politics in Wakanda while he pretends not to notice the amused, expectant way she's looking at him.

"He must have led such a fascinating life," Shuri says.

For a moment he thinks she's talking about Adebayo. Then he catches up. He frowns.

"Fascinating is not the word I would use. Bucky has been through a great deal of trauma and horror."

"Someone should write his biography. Or make a documentary! It would be fascinating."

"Leave him alone," T'Challa chides. "He has enough on his mind."

Shuri clucks her tongue.

"Don't worry, I won't bother your boyfriend."

T'Challa nearly chokes on his tea.

"Shuri!"

She looks at him over the rim of her teacup, eyes sparkling. He can see that this is going to be a continuing theme while she's here. He has never been as good at dissembling with Shuri as he is with others. He can feel heat rising in his face as he dabs the tea off his shirt. He tries to compensate for it by scowling at her.

"That is completely inappropriate."

"Because it's untrue, or because it's true?" she asks.

He doesn't dignify her question with a response, but she doesn't seem to require one.

"I see the way you look at him."

T'Challa goes _hmph_.

"He's a very badly damaged person. I want to help him."

"He does have very blue eyes," Shuri says, ignoring that. "Although he could stand to have a haircut and a shave."

T'Challa rolls his eyes.

"I'll be sure to pass on your advice."

*

After tea, enervated, T'Challa is on his way to the waterfall to be alone and think when he comes across Bucky. Just his luck. If he were alone, he could perhaps pretend he hadn't seen Bucky, but the two Dora Milaje with him have already clocked and assessed the potential threat.

"I'm sorry about my sister," he says, although he is not entirely sure what he is apologising for.

"Don't worry about it. Sorry I was being weird. Bad mood."

"I understand. Please let me know if she becomes a nuisance. She is fascinated by the legend of the Winter Soldier, I think."

Bucky laughs.

"It's okay. She's cute."

T'Challa frowns at him, caught by surprise by his own defensiveness. Bucky recoils as if he's been slapped. He blinks mutely for a couple of moments.

"What? For chrissake, she's a _kid_. Is that the kinda guy you think I am? Jesus."

Heat blooms in T'Challa's face again, and he buries it in his hands.

"I'm sorry. She has always been impetuous, and it can be trying."

Bucky smiles.

"I know what you mean. I had a kid sister once."

T'Challa turns to look at him, surprised not by the information itself so much as Bucky's willingness to share it. He is uncertain whether to encourage Bucky to talk more, or whether he should simply be quiet and listen. Bucky smiles a little, bittersweet.

"God, she was a pain in my ass. Good practice for being friends with Steve, though."

He looks at T'Challa, and the mix of emotions in his eyes is inscrutable. Somehow the smile on his face is even more heartbreaking in combination with that look.

"Is she still alive?" T'Challa asks gently.

"Dunno." Bucky swallows. "I thought about looking her up, but. I didn't want to put her in any danger."

T'Challa nods. He rests a hand on Bucky's shoulder.

"Well if you have need of someone to annoy you and turn your hair prematurely grey, you may borrow Shuri any time."

Bucky laughs, a genuine laugh that seems to break up the melancholy.

"Thanks, pal. I do kinda miss giving noogies."

T'Challa squints at him, baffled. Bucky sighs a little in exasperation.

"Noogies? Dutch rub? Here--"

He throws his arm around T'Challa's neck and demonstrates, rubbing his knuckles on the top of T'Challa's skull. It hurts, although he imagines this horseplay is a little less painful if the perpetrator does not have a bionic arm. Nonetheless, T'Challa is not about to concede. Aneka and Nareema step forward, but he holds up his hand to stop them. He twists, pivots, and neatly spins out of Bucky's grip, catching Bucky in a headlock of his own to return the favour.

"Hey-- ow!"

The yelp is punctuated by laughter. The women press their lips together so that they don't laugh. Bucky struggles, unsuccessfully, and then goes limp. T'Challa holds onto him for a moment longer and then releases him, gives him a shove. Bucky takes a half-hearted swipe at him and then runs metal fingers through his own mussed hair. The hem of his shirt has rucked up a bit to show a strip of skin, his loose pants hanging low on his hips. T'Challa's traitorous mind determines that Bucky is probably not wearing underwear. He looks away.

"I strongly advise against trying that on Shuri," he says. "She almost as much training in martial arts and unarmed combat as I do. Though I must admit, it would be satisfying to watch her beat you."

Bucky scoffs.

"Whatever you say, pussycat."

T'Challa stares him down. He knows Bucky is teasing him, but now his blood is up. He isn't terribly keen on Bucky behaving so casually towards him in front of the Dora Milaje, either. Bucky sometimes pushes the limits of acceptable behaviour.

"We should take this somewhere safer," T'Challa says, standing. "I would hate to hurt you by accident."

Bucky snorts.

"All right pal, you're on."

T'Challa forgets about the waterfall. Probably better for him not to sit alone and brood anyway. Better to do something, especially if that something is wiping that smirk off Bucky's face. He changes into something more appropriate for beating the stuffing out of a supersoldier, and they reconvene in the gym. The girls wait outside, impassive, although T'Challa is certain that they are listening closely.


	9. Stand, and unfold yourself*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

"Are you ready?" T'Challa asks, all solicitousness. "I would hate to defeat an unprepared opponent."

Bucky rolls his eyes. As irksome as it can be, he can't really fault T'Challa for his haughtiness. He is a king, after all, and one of the only people in the world that Bucky might be more than a little afraid of.

"It's cute how you just assume you're gonna win."

"Precedent would seem to be in my favor."

"Uh huh. You know I was just trying to run, right? Not actually fight you? It's a little different when I'm not pulling punches."

T'Challa nods, his face very serious. Bucky recognizes that patronizing sincerity and narrows his eyes. The urge to fight him intensifies.

"What martial arts do you know?" T'Challa asks.

"Why, so you can work out a strategy? Try again, pal."

"I ask out of curiosity. You seem to use a mixture of _krav maga_ and some styles I'm not familiar with."

Bucky shrugs. He doesn't really want to think about where he learned most of this shit. It just comes out when it needs to, and the rest of the time it stays locked up inside him with everything else. That's just as well, as far as he's concerned.

"Some of it I learned during the war. Some of it… well, you know. And before the war I did a little boxing."

He flicks his thumb across his nose and squares up, grinning a little.

"I never really liked boxing," T'Challa says.

"Why not? Too lowbrow?"

"No, the gloves always felt clumsy and heavy to me. Graceless."

Bucky nods.

"I get it, cats hate having stuff on their feet."

It takes a fraction of a second for T'Challa to get it, and if Bucky's not mistaken, the man almost laughs. He narrows his eyes. Bucky smiles.

"What?" he says. "I've been on the internet."

"It is going to be a genuine pleasure to trounce you."

Bucky flashes him a shit-eating grin. He knows all too well that he's no match for T'Challa, but pride and a twinge of excitement in his belly are overriding his better instincts. Besides, T'Challa isn't wearing his onesie or its razor-sharp claws, so they're a little more evenly matched.

"That's all right, we can go no gloves, as long as you're not worried about breaking your face on my hand."

"You prefer bare-knuckle?"

"Yeah, but I don't wanna ruin your pretty face," Bucky says.

He can hear the old Brooklyn Bucky seep back into his voice. He holds up the new bionic hand and wiggles the fingers. _Stop calling him pretty, moron_.

"This presumes you will hit me."

Bucky cocks his head.

"I guess we'll see."

Bucky takes up a right-handed stance, the way he used to box before and during the war. The vibranium arm is much lighter than the old one, but it still has weight he has to compensate for. He stays on his toes. T'Challa is fast as hell, and if he lets his guard down, he'll be dogmeat. Catmeat. Whatever the case may be.

T'Challa doesn't exactly take up a boxing stance, which seems a little unfair. Instead he circles Bucky like a predator, hands loose in front of him. If Bucky were being honest with himself, it's a little fucking scary. He's always been more of a slugger than anything else-- you don't learn fancy techniques on the streets of Brooklyn-- and he has a hell of a right hook. Somehow he doesn't think a good right hook is going to be enough.

"Let's do this."

He loosens up his shoulders, rolls his neck. T'Challa moves with him, just out of reach, light of foot, with his eyes fixed on Bucky's. Bucky winks.

"C'mon sugar, you gonna hit me or not?"

He moves forward with a jab that T'Challa easily slips. He's fast-- faster than Bucky, almost as strong, and it's really only a matter of time. But Bucky isn't about to back down. It's not just pride, either. You don't get better by fighting people you can beat. T'Challa moves in fast and low to get a couple of body shots in, then dances away again. Time to even the odds a little. Bucky switches his feet and changes to a left-handed stance so he can lead with the metal arm. T'Challa pauses, and Bucky shrugs.

"Switch-hitter," he says, waggling his eyebrows.

He doesn't know if T'Challa understands the double entendre and definitely isn't going to explain it. T'Challa goes back to a semi-crouch. Bucky can see him thinking it through, like a chess game with fists. Bucky has the edge as far as power goes, but they both know T'Challa can outmaneuvre him. He goes for a sloppy jab that doesn't even come close, and T'Challa moves in for a quick combination, gets in a couple of body shots and an uppercut that makes Bucky see stars for a moment.

T'Challa waits for him to collect himself. He shakes his head, bobs, and circles around. "Meow."

He grins a little, and T'Challa's eyes narrow. His lips press together in the expression Bucky knows historically as _you're an asshole but I'm trying not to laugh_. It's good-- it means potential distraction. With an opponent as skilled as T'Challa, he needs every edge he can get. He has to pull his punches with the left hand, because no amount of explanation from either of them is gonna save his ass from the Dora Milaje if T'Challa ends up with a broken cheekbone or nose.

Bucky's being so careful not to hit too hard that he fails to foresee T'Challa's incoming right hook. It catches him square on the mouth and knocks him onto his ass. His teeth click together hard. T'Challa drops his arms, goes soft again, his eyes wide.

"Are you all right?"

Bucky waves him away.

"Goddamn, I thought you said you didn't like boxing."

"I didn't say I had never done it."

Bucky laughs. "Fair enough. Serves me right for being cocky."

T'Challa extends his arm and helps Bucky to his feet. He touches his finger to his lip. It comes away bloody. He smiles. That's probably enough boxing for the time being. T'Challa rests a hand on his shoulder.

"I am sorry."

"Nah, I had it coming. Besides, I've had worse."

A quick double beep announces that time is up. T'Challa looks at his _kimoyo_.

"I'm sorry, I have to go. I have a conference call with the tribal chiefs, and I need to prepare for it."

"Tough being the king, isn't it?"

T'Challa side-eyes him and turns around to leave for his call. The girls follow, every bit as straight-spined and regal-looking as their king. Bucky cocks his head to one side and watches him walk away.

*

Bucky bends towards the mirror to inspect his lip. The bleeding stopped right away-- he can thank his black market serum for that-- and by the end of the day tomorrow it'll probably be healed completely. In the meantime, he keeps tonguing the tender spot on his lip and thinking about T'Challa. The warmth of his hand around Bucky's, and the brief touch of his body. His big, soft, dark eyes, and the way they widened when Bucky hit the mat. The set of his shoulders, and the flex of the muscles in them as he helped Bucky up.

In the absence of a mission or imminent danger to focus on, it's been hard for him to keep his mind off T'Challa. He's pretty sure one of the Dora Milaje caught him looking at T'Challa's ass a couple of days ago, and since then he's tried to behave himself and avoid the king, at least in public. It just seems to make it that much more difficult not to think about him in private.

He turns off the light and climbs into bed. He tries to focus on his breathing and on relaxing the muscles in his body to prepare for sleep. Instead he thinks about T'Challa's mouth. His lips would be soft. It's part of his appeal, that mixture of hardness and softness. Confident but kind. Large soft eyes but no less dangerous for that. The stoniness of his face when he's pissed off, and the way a smile completely transforms it. Bucky groans and pulls a pillow over his head.

" _Stop it_."

He breathes into the pillow for a while until his recycled breath is too hot and thick, and then he throws it across the room. He turns over, trying to find a comfortable position, trying to find some configuration that will shut his mind up and let him sleep. Eventually his bladder forces him out of bed and into the bathroom. He ignores his drawn, unshaven face in the mirror. After he washes his hands, he looks through the medicine cabinet. Toothpaste, aspirin, razor blades-- coconut oil. That'll do. He takes it back to bed with him and drops down with an exasperated sigh. At least he's always jerked off with his right hand.

He taps some coconut oil into his palm and rubs his fingers to warm it. The scent rises and brings to mind beaches and the sound of waves. Bucky thinks for a minute about whether he's actually ever been to a tropical beach. Not that he can recall, not in any capacity that didn't involve bullets and bloodshed. Then again, a bionic arm isn't exactly low profile. A private beach, maybe. One of those little islands that's not really inhabited. No people, just the crash of the surf. Throwing himself naked into the blue-green water. Alone? Maybe not.

T'Challa's probably a strong swimmer. Doesn't seem to be anything he can't do. Bucky can imagine the gleam of his skin in the sun, turning gold as it sets. Bucky closes his hand around his half-hard cock and sighs. T'Challa after one of their sparring sessions, sheened with sweat, shirtless, every muscle on his torso highlighted. Bucky's tongue touches his upper lip. T'Challa's mouth is right there to catch it. He'd be a good kisser, too. A hand cradling the back of Bucky's head while the other rests in the small of his back. Slow and easy, but firm. He'd fuck like that too, taking his time and doing it right, but Bucky knows all the same that he'll come harder than he has in… maybe ever.

His fingertips brush his perineum, and his whole body jolts. He closes his eyes and catches his lip between his teeth. He keeps his hand on his dick, firmly around the base, cradling his balls, and does it again. A gentle stroke across tender skin. He applies a little pressure, and then he comes with an embarrassingly loud moan, all over his hand, all over the exquisite white cotton sheets covering the bed.

He's suddenly very glad that there is a washer/dryer in the bungalow so that he can do his own laundry. More pressing than that, though, is the flood of warmth and endorphins in his body. It suddenly feels so _necessary_ , and why's it taken him so long to rediscover this? The sensuality of touch, even if it's his own. The response of his body and the feedback loop it creates. He's sure on some level that way back in his mind he remembered what this was like, but it's very different to experience it in the flesh, so to speak. He has to figure himself out all over again.

Bucky lies back and breathes out. God, what would it be like doing it with another human being? He seems to remember being pretty good at it, but that was eighty years and two left arms ago. It's nothing but distant echoes. He can recall bits and pieces-- red hair, a leg wrapped around his hips, the warmth of another body-- but it doesn't add up to an experience. And who the hell would he have sex with anyway?

The answer comes to him entirely too quickly. T'Challa-- there is no denying it-- is a very attractive man. Got an ass that won't quit, not that Bucky's looked or anything. That quiet lilting voice. He'd be very attentive, Bucky thinks, gentle and patient. His hands strong… firm on Bucky's hips as he thrusts into him. The crease of his forehead. Damp skin. Sweat. His breath coming fast, and Bucky beneath him, knees up, his lip caught between his teeth. The impact of T'Challa's hips moving him upward a millimeter at a time, until he braces himself against the headboard with his metal forearm and takes it, takes it as hard as he can get it.

Bucky's jerking off again, making quiet breathy noises-- _ah--oh--ah--ah--_ as his hips lift up to push his cock into the hot slick friction of his hand. When he comes, his breath stops, and he gasps for the next one. His metal fingers clutch the sheets hard enough to pull them off the corner of the mattress and tear them.

"Goddammit. Fuck."

He wonders where in Wakanda he can buy sheets.


	10. Yet have I something in me dangerous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: drug use under medical supervision

T'Challa realises one morning, in the midst of signing some papers for Dayo, that he hasn't seen Bucky in a week. Even with Bucky staying in the bungalow now, it makes sense for their paths to cross periodically. And if he's honest with himself, he thought they were friends. He considers texting, but what would he say? Dr Okereke continues to send him updates on Bucky's progress, so he is obviously still going to his sessions.

The thought slips his mind. He doesn't have the luxury of worrying about it, except at night, when all the day's combined anxieties come crashing down in a wave to drown him. It's a drop in that sea, but it grows as he notices the absence more and more. Usually Bucky likes to sit in the atrium and write in his notebooks, pretending not to notice the way that some people stare at him. T'Challa hasn't seen him there in at least two weeks. Has something happened? If someone was unpleasant to him, Bucky likely would not have said anything, just quietly disappeared. Only the doctor would know for certain.

It mustn't seem like he's worried, he thinks as he strides towards the medical wing, not least because he suspects Bucky would never stop teasing him. Americans are so uncomfortable with genuine emotion. It baffles him.

He opens the door to the lab and walks in, doing his best to seem casual.

"Your Highness," Dr Okereke says, flustered. "We weren't expecting you."

"I happened to be passing by and thought I would have a word with you. How are things progressing?"

"Very well, in general. Bucky is very co--" She catches herself before she finishes the word: _compliant_. "He had difficulty initially, although that's not surprising, given the era he's from and what he's been through. He is making excellent progress."

"Good. Has he mentioned anything to you, any unpleasant experiences? I want to be sure people are showing our guest the civility he deserves."

The doctor shakes her head.

"Nothing that stands out. He talks frequently about the 'standoffishness' of Wakandans, but he respects it. I think if anything had happened, he would have mentioned it. Why do you ask?"

He debates whether to mention it to her. But then, it might be relevant to his treatment.

"I haven't seen him in a few days. He's stopped spending time in the palace, and I wondered if someone had said something to him."

Dr Okereke opens her mouth to speak, seems to remember something, then closes it again. She has the look of someone who knows something but has been instructed to say nothing about it. Would she conceal something from him at Bucky's request, he wonders? He decides to move the conversation on rather than press the issue.

"I get your updates, but I must admit to being curious about the techniques you're using."

She hesitates, and T'Challa remembers that she sent him the complete treatment dossier weeks ago. He does his best to look rueful.

"I'm sorry, I have not had time to read the dossier."

"Ah. Well, we have daily talk therapy, and his counterconditioning sessions usually involve a visual or auditory stimulant, designed to create positive associations. That is more challenging. It may actually take years to reverse what's been done to him. Occasionally we'll introduce one of his trigger words-- subliminally. We hope to start introducing them explicitly in the near future. It will depend on how he responds to the first one. So far he has not reacted violently. If he consents, we plan to explicitly introduce the last word in the series next week--  _грузовой вагон_. Freightcar."

"That sounds dangerous."

"We expect the word to trigger flashbacks to his fall from the train. Beyond that, it's difficult to say. We're prepared for the possibility that he might react with violence."

"Will you restrain him?"

"Only if he consents. We also have a safe room we can use. If he isn't comfortable with restraints, we'll do the session in there."

T'Challa nods. He doesn't doubt that Bucky will allow himself to be restrained, if only for the safety of the medical team. He's too aware of his own lethality, too keen to avoid further casualties, to refuse.

"What's happening now?" T'Challa asks.

"Drug therapy. We've tried a variety of drugs to determine which ones would be effective for… loosening his mind, you might say. Hallucinogens, hypnotics, sedatives, to assist with the counterconditioning. We tried benzodiazepines, but they provoked paradoxical reactions. Agitation… aggression. Opiods calmed him, but we were concerned about addiction."

He nods.

"What have you given him today?"

" _Iboga_. It is wearing off, so if you'd like to talk to him, you won't harm anything. It might be good for him, actually. I don't think he gets enough social stimulation."

T'Challa doubts that Bucky's encounters with Wakandans have encouraged that. He steps into the room, and Bucky's eyes light up. They almost immediately go dark again. As if he's trying to conceal something, but his chemically slowed reaction time isn't quite up to it.

"T'Challa…" he says quietly. "What're you doing here?"

"I haven't seen you for a while. Was it something I said?"

Bucky smiles, dazzlingly bright.

"Nah."

Distracted, Bucky looks away and raises his cybernetic hand to catch something invisible, closes it around air. Open, close.

"You've been avoiding me."

Bucky frowns.

"Embarrassed."

"About what?"

He chuckles softly, as if it's obvious and T'Challa should know already. T'Challa smiles at him. Bucky reaches out his hand-- the right one-- and clasps his.

"I'm glad you're here," he says.

"Why is that?" T'Challa asks.

"Well, next to Steve, you're kinda my only friend."

T'Challa bows his head. Sometimes he's struck anew by the shock when he remembers the enormity of what's happened to Bucky, the way that his life was ripped away from him. A fate worse than death. Bucky sniffles.

"You're so… fuckin'... _kind_ ," Bucky says, his voice breaking. "You've been so nice to me, and I'm gonna cause you so much trouble. I'm not worth it."

T'Challa abruptly wishes that he had stayed out of the lab. It feels wrong to see Bucky like this, vulnerable in a way he would never be otherwise.

"Bucky… I'm helping you because you're my friend."

"'Cause you're just that kind of guy. You're probably a great king."

"Thank you, Bucky."

Bucky gives him a winning smile and lets his head loll. His eyes flick downward and then back up, and there's something in them that gives T'Challa pause. There's a heat somewhere in the depths of that cool blue-grey gaze.

"You know how handsome you are, right?" Bucky murmurs. "I mean, your body is... God. Sometimes I look at you and I just..."

His voice is full of wonder, low and raspy. It walks little pinprick steps up the back of T'Challa's neck. Dr Okereke gives him a sidewise glance of dismay. She doesn't look surprised or shocked, he notes, but she does take a step towards the door. Fortunately for both of them, Bucky doesn't finish the sentence. He is dragged metaphysically to a new train of thought by the _iboga_ , which makes him sigh, then laugh at something only he is conscious of.

T'Challa steps back, and both he and the doctor exit the little treatment room. T'Challa's mouth compresses.

"Does he talk about me often?"

Dr Okereke looks through the glass at Bucky, but not at T'Challa.

"You and Captain Rogers, mostly. Sometimes the Howling Commandos, and someone named Sam. Sometimes he speaks English, but as often it's Russian or Romanian. And my mother told me Slavic languages would be useless."

She smiles but still doesn't look at him. Her eyes are fixed firmly on Bucky.

"Please accept my apologies, Your Highness. I did not expect him to say that to you."

Unless his ears deceive him, she places the smallest emphasis on _to_. I did not think he would say that _to_ you. He wonders what else has been said that he was not present to hear. It's just as well he doesn't know. It's none of his business, and he feels a crawl of guilt at having seen Bucky like that. Stripped down to raw emotion.

"You have nothing to apologise for-- either of you. I should not have been here."

He nods at her and withdraws from the treatment room. He walks through the gardens with his hands in his pockets. Dayo pops up with her portfolio and tablet to ask him to sign things, tell him which meetings have been cancelled and which are now designated as Urgent. She summarises the day's mail for him, electronic and postal, and reminds him of upcoming birthdays. Her own, he knows, is in a few weeks, and he knows that she will _somehow_ neglect to mention it. He makes a mental note to tell Sam that it's coming up and smiles.

A few hours later, his _kimoyo_ chirps.

 

> Bucky: fuck
> 
> T'Challa: Pardon?
> 
> Bucky: were you in the lab today??? or did i hallucinate that?
> 
> T'Challa: yes i was there, i'm sorry 
> 
> Bucky: fuckkkkk 
> 
> T'Challa: what is it?

 

Bucky doesn't respond. He continues to avoid T'Challa. He takes to wearing a baseball cap again and pacing around his garden. T'Challa gives him space. He isn't bothered by the news-- at least, not in the way Bucky seems to imagine. It's flattering, if awkward, but he tells himself quite firmly that it doesn't really mean anything. It can't be easy to be confronted with human emotions and connections again after being a weapon for so long. With time, Bucky will work them out. There's no need for him to make the situation worse by introducing his own defenses and insecurities.

*

A week later, T'Challa is arbitrating a disagreement between the Jabari and another marsh tribe when Dr Okereke comes to talk to him. T'Challa would be happy to end the virtual meeting right then, but this is not an issue that can wait. Tribal relations in Wakanda are often tense, and he's painfully aware of the way the presence of the Avengers has polarised people. Dr Okereke waits patiently in the anteroom.

By the time he manages to wrap things up, schedule a follow-up meeting, and disconnect, he has a faint headache. He calls in Dr Okereke, who's uncharacteristically fidgety.

"It's about Bucky," she says.

Of course it is.

"How is his treatment proceeding?"

"Not very well at the moment, I'm afraid. He's become withdrawn again. He has said very little in either the drug therapy sessions or one on ones. Has something happened that I should know about?"

T'Challa shakes his head.

"I thought everything was going well."

She lowers her voice.

"Do you think it could be what he said to you? He seemed very anxious about it once he came out from under the _iboga_. I went to the bungalow for his last two sessions, but we haven't heard from him today. I nearly always hear from him in some capacity. I've rung him, but there's no response. I have the medical team on standby to break in, if need be."

T'Challa holds up his hand.

"I'm sure he's fine."

It's not the first lie he's told today. It probably won't be the last. He doesn't want to assume that Bucky's slip under the influence of _iboga_ is the cause of his withdrawal. It could be something far more serious, and it feels egocentric to assume that Bucky's odd behaviour is because of him. He doesn't think it's the return of the Winter Soldier either-- he would have made his presence known. Likely, Bucky is simply having a bad period, as Dr Okereke said he might. She had said that friendship would be important at times like this.

T'Challa considers whether to call Steve. If anyone can draw Bucky out, it's him-- as Bucky bemoans frequently. But Steve would complicate things, and T'Challa suspects Bucky would be angry if he called in the Captain without asking him first. Enough people are angry with him already.

"I'll speak to him."


	11. Give it an understanding, but no tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: depressive behaviour

Bucky is in bed, naked, as he has been for the last 26 hours. He hasn't left the bungalow for three days. His last two sessions were housecalls, allegedly because he had food poisoning. If Dr Okereke knows he's bullshitting, she hasn't felt the need to say so. His only other forays out of his bedroom have been to the kitchen to grab something to eat. Even then, he comes right back to bed. The curtains are drawn, the room is dim. He's spent the day phasing in and out of sleep. Lonely and embarrassed and horny and unshaven.

A knock sounds at the front door. Bucky rolls his eyes and flops back. He'll wait for whoever it is to go away. He doesn't have a session scheduled for today, so it can't be that important. He doesn't feel like talking to anyone. He doesn't feel like doing anything at all, except sleeping and maybe jerking off like a teenager who's just discovered his own dick.

The subsequent knock, louder, at his bedroom door, makes Bucky jump. He throws the sheet over his hips and flops over onto his stomach, hoping to look like he woke up from a nap.

"Who is it?" he asks.

He hopes whoever it is can tell how annoyed _he_ is.

Muffled by the door: "T'Challa."

"T'Challa?"

He wasn't really expecting that, although now that he thinks about it, who else would it be? Maybe Dr Okereke. She's texted him a few times, and he hasn't bothered to respond. Oh, fuck. She must have told T'Challa about it. That's why he's here. To check up on him.

"May I come in?"

Still on the other side of the door. Scrupulously polite.

"Yeah, of course."

Bucky sighs and buries his face in the pillow as the door opens. Through a gap between his arm and the pillow he sees T'Challa peek in, then open the door further. What did he think Bucky was going to do, attack him? Or maybe he thought Bucky would be naked. Which one would disturb him more?

"I wanted to speak to you."

Bucky's stomach turns over.

"About what?"

T'Challa hesitates. Bucky's anxiety ratchets up.

"Dr Okereke spoke to me today. She said your treatment has hit a bump."

Bucky says nothing.

"They said it was very sudden, only in the past few days. You were doing very well, but you've shut down again. They are concerned. _I_ am concerned. As your friend. I wanted to ask if there is anything I can do. Would you like me to call Steve?"

Bucky's head jerks up.

"Christ, no!"

He drops down onto the pillow again. He can sense T'Challa waiting for him to speak. For a wild moment, Bucky considers just propositioning him, flinging the sheet back and saying some stupid line. T'Challa's too cosmopolitan to recoil in disgust. He'd probably just frown and say _no thank you_. That might be worse, actually. Nobody does cool disdain like Wakandans.

But maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he'd say nothing. Maybe he'd look at Bucky for a long series of seconds and then stride towards the bed and climb on top of him, still fully clothed. The friction of his clothes on Bucky's naked skin, the weight of his body on top of him…

"Bucky?"

He snaps out of it, glad he's lying on his stomach. T'Challa is looking at him very closely. He peeks through his fingers.

"D'you mind if I put some clothes on first?"

T'Challa laughs.

"Of course. Why don't I make some tea?"

Bucky prefers coffee, but if it gets T'Challa out of his bedroom and away from his erection, he'll agree to drink anything. The door closes. Bucky rolls around in the tangle of the sheets, rests his head against the headboard. He knocks it against the wood, two, three, six times. The discomfort helps take his mind off his dick. He debates whether to finish what he started, then decides it would take too long. Not to mention T'Challa is just in the other room. He puts on pants loose enough for plausible deniability and skulks into the kitchen with his hands stuffed in the pockets. T'Challa is actually making tea, proper tea with a teapot and teacups, on a tray and everything.

"Huh. I didn't know I had a teapot."

T'Challa smiles.

"This tea is grown in Wakanda. The flavour is very similar to Assam-- but better, I think. I thought it might do you some good to have some-- made properly, I mean. Not a bag on a string in a mug. Or worse-- in a paper cup."

He sucks his teeth.

"What can I say, white people are barbarians."

T'Challa raises an eyebrow at him, and he winks. He's not being entirely flippant about it. He hasn't learned everything there is to know about 20th century history after the war, but he's picked up enough background to know it ain't pretty. He knows how most Wakandans feel about white people, specifically Americans, and he can't say he blames them. Especially since he may well be personally responsible for some of the chaos. He frowns. That's not the way he's supposed to think of it… how did the doctor put it? _Present, but not culpable_. She's encouraged him to think of himself as witness to the Winter Soldier's violence. Aware of what it's done to others, sorry for it, but as much a bystander as anyone else was. He's not sure she really gets what it's like to know that the hands folded in your lap have murdered people.

"Bucky," T'Challa says, breaking his train of thought. "You have been avoiding me for two weeks."

He groans and scrubs a hand over his face. He'd hoped this was just about his treatment and not about what he said to T'Challa, about his very inappropriate feelings. Dr Okereke has assured him that it's perfectly natural and that he shouldn't worry about it, but that's easy for her to say. She's not the one standing barefoot in the kitchen with half a hard-on while T'Challa looks at her like _that_. He hunches his shoulders and leans against the kitchen counter. Keeps his eyes on the floor.

"I just wanted to be alone."

It's not an unreasonable excuse, even if it is bullshit. If anything, he wants desperately _not_ to be alone. He wants company, the company of a very specific person, in a very specific way, who just so happens to be the worst possible person to have come here to talk to him. Now that he's here, the immediacy of the need floods Bucky with anxiety. And a few other things. He keeps his hands in his pockets to make sure they don't do anything they shouldn't. T'Challa's back is to him again, and thank god for that, because it means Bucky doesn't have to meet his eyes. It also means that he has a prime view of T'Challa's ass and the way his back curves down into it. He blows a few stray hairs out of his face.

T'Challa turns just slightly, just enough to catch him in his peripheral vision, he thinks. Hopefully not enough to realize he was staring.

"Understandable. You are going through a lot. I can only imagine the turmoil your mind is in. It's… you shouldn't worry about things you say under treatment. I shouldn't have been there, and I am sorry for it."

Bucky heaves a sigh. He debates whether it would be rude to just dive back into bed and hide under the blankets. Unquestionably. Not to mention, T'Challa would probably just follow him anyway, and if there's anything he doesn't need, it's T'Challa in his bedroom again.

"Okay. Apology accepted. We done now?"

He doesn't mean for it to sound like a curt dismissal, but T'Challa turns his head to look at him with something that resembles anger.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles.

It's the easiest thing to say. He _is_ sorry, he's sorry he opened his big fat mouth, and he's sorry that T'Challa happened to be there to hear it. He's sorry he's clinging to the one person he knows here like a life preserver. He's sorry he's such a fucking wreck of a human being. T'Challa pours hot water into the teapot and sets down the lid.

"Don't apologize."

"I am, though. I'm sorry if I creeped you out."

T'Challa turns around now while the tea steeps and looks at Bucky. His gaze is unsettling. The last thing Bucky wants is for T'Challa to look at him with tenderness or kindness or anything like that. He'd prefer getting punched in the face, all things being equal. Maybe that's coming.

"You did no such thing. I take it as a sign that you are getting better. Feeling human desires can only be a good sign.

"Can we _please_ stop fuckin' talking about this."

T'Challa picks up the tea tray and carries it to the table. He gestures for Bucky to sit and then pours for both of them. T'Challa pours a little milk into his-- revolting. Bucky makes sure his face indicates just how wrong that is, then dumps three lumpen sugar cubes into his tea and stirs it. Gives him a reason to avoid T'Challa's eyes for a while. He watches the sugar dissolve into crystals, then into nothing. He watches the spoon circle the bottom of the cup, tinkling.

"You were under the influence of very powerful drugs," T'Challa says. "I've used them myself, actually."

Bucky raises an eyebrow.

"Really."

T'Challa nods.

"Part of the journey to become the Black Panther. Beyond the physical training, there is a kind of journey of self-discovery. You must know yourself completely before you can embark on that journey. Self-deception is dangerous, particularly for a warrior."

"I'm not a _warrior_ ," Bucky says, more vehemently than he meant to. "I was a goddamn weapon for eighty years. A puppet. I didn't go on some mystical quest, I just fell off a train into hell."

"You are trying to change the subject."

T'Challa drinks his tea and levels his gaze at Bucky over the rim of the cup. Bucky stares at him. Has Dr Okereke been telling T'Challa about their sessions? No. He would have known about Bucky's little crush much earlier if that were the case. He's just too goddamn perceptive for Bucky's own good.

"I may not have known you for long, but I have noticed how you try to misdirect a conversation when you feel it has become too personal."

There's a trace of a smile on his lips. Bucky's not sure if he wants to hit it with his fist or his mouth.

"What are you, a shrink?"

"My doctorate is in physics, not psychology."

Bucky stares at him, then shakes his head.

"Of course it is. How silly of me."

Nonetheless, he does smile a little, and T'Challa smiles back at him. His face turns earnest, and Bucky's stomach drops like someone's just thrown a cannonball into it. T'Challa touches his hand. He pulls back, and the smile falls off his face. He stares into the dregs of his teacup.

"I was afraid something had happened to you," T'Challa says quietly. "Or that you had hurt yourself. I should have known that you wouldn't, but…"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you. I just don't know how to deal with… this. It was easier when I was on my own. All I had to worry about was me."

"I know."

"Let me make you dinner to make up for it? I was learning how to cook in Bucharest-- y'know, before you kicked my ass."

_Bad idea bad idea bad idea bad idea what the fuck are you doing Barnes abort abort_

T'Challa laughs.

"You're a white man who's been frozen for seventy years. I'm not sure I trust your cooking."

"Ouch."

"I'll cook."

*

T'Challa is all smiles when he leaves Bucky standing in the kitchen with a cup of tea in hand, his face turned up to the sun. He retains his cheerful demeanour until he manages to be alone, and then the smile drops from his face. He sighs, angry with himself and angry with Bucky. He knows Bucky couldn't hear his heart beating against his sternum at seeing him so vulnerable, naked except for the sheet thrown over his hips. He couldn't see himself draped across the bed like a Lucian Freud painting. He could not have possibly sensed how badly T'Challa wanted to climb into bed with him and hold him, touch him. Nonetheless, the resentment remains.

It's not as if it's the first time he's been infatuated with someone, and not the first time it's been a foreigner. He had his fair share of relationships and dalliances while he was studying abroad. Perhaps more than his fair share. But that was before. His life is cleaved, there's a chasm lying across his psyche, Before Vienna and After. His father's death, and his subsequent ascent into manhood, to the throne. Everything is different now.

He's always prided himself on his self-restraint. One does not become the Black Panther by being impulsive and foolhardy. It rattles him to sense that tightly knit self-restraint fraying under the strain of Bucky Barnes's blue eyes. T'Challa takes a slow deep breath and lets it out even more slowly.

The wise thing to do would be to tell Bucky that something's come up and that he must cancel. It would be a lie, but T'Challa learned long before he became king that not all lies are evil. It's perhaps a slippery slope between the first, essential, lie one tells and the ones that follow, but it's terrain he's familiar with. Alienating people in his life to protect them.

He sighs. To hell with it.


	12. The continent of what part a gentleman would see

There are a lot of reasons for Bucky to get himself properly groomed, he tells himself, not the least of which is how often his hair gets in his eyes. He ties it back, but half the time it slips out and gets in his face anyway. It's just the wrong length, and it's driving him nuts. The doctor thinks it's a good idea, a sign that he wants to take better care of himself. If she suspects ulterior motives, she doesn't say so.

Dr Okereke's arranged it, because Bucky's too self-conscious to ask T'Challa for recommendations. Plus, he kinda wants to see what T'Challa's reaction is. A woman with beautifully braided hair comes to the bungalow with her gear, and Bucky realises just after she walks in that she's the only other person who's been in the house besides T'Challa.

"My god," she says. "Who did this to you."

He considers whether to say _Hydra_ and decides against it. He shrugs. The stylist gets a good look at him, checks out the texture of his hair, scrunches up her mouth as she presumably pictures something less… derelict.

"Well. What would you like me to do? Are you looking for something shorter? Something _much_ shorter? You have such a handsome face, I don't understand why you don't want people to see it."

He blushes-- fucking _blushes_ like a schoolgirl.

"I've been going through a rough patch," he says.

"Hm."

He hands her a photo of himself from before the fall, some stupid photo taken by Dum Dum Dugan while they enjoyed some R&R in between Hydra raids. It's disorienting. It's like looking through a portal back in time at someone who doesn't exist anymore. He guesses that's exactly what it is. That Bucky is someone he no longer is. He's seen pictures of himself from the 40s, looking cocksure and handsome. He knows he _was_ that person, but when he tries to remember, tries to feel the way the old Bucky must have felt, it feels like something in his brain shorts out.

"What's your name?" he asks.

"Rebecca."

Bucky blinks.

"That was my sister's name. I'm Bucky."

"Nice to meet you, Bucky."

Rebecca runs her fingers through his hair, and he closes his eyes.

"Let's get your hair washed, hm?"

It's been a very, very long time since anyone washed Bucky's hair. He's a little tense at the start, fully aware of how vulnerable he is. But then the water flows over his scalp and gentle fingers massage in the shampoo, and he remembers why this is a thing people do. He lets some of the tension out of his body. He manages not to fall asleep before she finishes up, and then she chivvies him out with a towel around his head, to sit in a chair. He's not in front of a mirror, so he can't see what she's doing. It's entirely a tactile experience. An exercise in trust. She combs out sections of hair and snips. Bucky watches them drift to the floor and pile up. Rebecca doesn't try to force conversation, and he can't decide if that's a relief or if he's disappointed. He doesn't really talk to anyone except T'Challa and the medical team.

"Tip your head forward, please."

He does as he's told. Shears snip at the base of his neck, cool metal close to the skin. It tickles a little. She gets out an electric trimmer and trims up the nape of his neck. He wrinkles his nose a little and smiles down into his lap. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her rifling through her bag. She takes out a little jar of some kind of hair cream and rubs a little of it between her hands. Then she runs them through his hair. It smells nice, whatever it is, like maybe there's mint in it, and something else. She brushes the bits of hair off his neck and shoulders and whips off the cape thing.

"All right, I think we are done. Are you ready?"

He smiles, but he actually feels a little like throwing up.

"Yeah. Let's have a look."

She gives him a large hand mirror. He pauses. He takes a deep breath and blows it out. Lifts up the mirror.

*

It's never a good idea to keep a king waiting. Bucky and T'Challa have a standing engagement three times a week now, training and sparring. For the most part they don't speak, except maybe to talk shit. Bucky suspects it's some of the only time T'Challa gets to himself. He runs down the long corridor to the gym, bag bouncing on his shoulder. It feels weird to not feel his hair bouncing along with it. His neck feels naked. For that matter, so does his face.

After Rebecca left, he'd decided he needed a shave. He'd sat down in front of the large mirror in the bathroom and used the electric trimmer to take his stubble down to a workable length. What he hadn't considered was that it had been about 80 years since his last shave. He thought he remembered how to do it, but that was an hour and three nicks ago. But his face is smooth now, or as smooth as it'll get for the time being. He walks into the gym and tosses his things onto a bench. He sits down on it to retie a shoelace.

"Sorry I'm late."

No response. He looks up again. T'Challa is staring at him.

"Oh, right," he laughs, running a hand through his hair. "Don't really recognize myself now."

T'Challa nods, and after a few more moments he manages to drag his eyes away from Bucky's face.

"You look very nice."

"Uh, thanks."

At one point in his life he would have known how to respond to this. He would have had a cute line, something egotistical but endearing, said with a wink. Back then. When he was someone else. He's not sure how he's supposed to behave now. What the rules are. Just as well that he doesn't have to think about anything more complicated than combat tactics for a while.

A few minutes into their first bout, the door opens, and one of the Dora Milaje comes stalking in.

"Your Highness, there's been an incident."

She glances at Bucky. He can take a hint. He retreats to the locker room, although his hearing is good enough that he can still hear them talking. He has no idea what they're saying, apart from catching occasional words like "Kalashnikov" and "Jeep." He picks up his _kimoyo_ and looks through news feeds for any clue about what happened. Most Wakandan websites, surprise, are in Wakandan. He comes across a Kenyan news site with a brief blurb about a skirmish at the border. Four men entered Wakandan territory armed with Kalashnikovs. There was a firefight, and all four were killed.

Bucky frowns and keeps searching for more information. They could have been poachers-- Wakanda is essentially a giant wildlife refuge, and Wakanda also does not go easy on poachers or traffickers of endangered animal parts. All the same, something dark and heavy settles in his gut.

*

It is immensely strange to see Bucky as he must have looked before the war. Somehow, with a hair cut, his face looks less drawn, less haggard. But it can only be a good thing. If he is beginning to care about his appearance, that means progress. At first, T'Challa finds it difficult to call up the image of Bucky without the long hair and weeks of stubble. The new image, clean-shaven and neatly trimmed, struggles to supplant the old one. When he sees Bucky, he's struck by sudden recognition all over again. It tickles the back of his mind, as a grain of sand might tickle an oyster. It becomes material, accumulates mass, and grows. What is on Tuesday a bit of information by Friday becomes a recurring thought. He thinks about what Bucky said under the influence of _iboga_. His mind starts finishing Bucky's sentence for him.

He plays _bao_ with Okoye, but his mind isn't on the game. After her third win, he gives up on the proposition.

"You seem distracted, Your Highness."

Her voice is neutral, but he catches the sidewise look she gives him when she thinks he isn't looking. Or maybe she knows he's looking. That might be worse. He ignores it and sits back in his comfortable chair. The board does not look any better from further away.

"I have a great number of things on my mind, Okoye."

"Of course."

How does she manage to somehow sound both deferential and impudent?

"The trade agreement with the European Union-- have Brussels sent us the latest amendments? We have been waiting two weeks."

"Not yet," she says. "I think they are stalling. They know we won't agree to the import duties as they are now-- nor should we. They are outrageous." She catches herself and bites her lip. "Apologies, beloved. You did not ask for my opinion."

T'Challa gives her a wry smile.

"No one else seems to hesitate to let me know their opinions, Okoye. Why should you? I just wish they would form an orderly line."

She smiles. She picks up a _bao_ stone with her shapely hand and sets it down.

"I could beat them up, if you like."

He suspects that she is presently imagining using a sling to fling that stone at the skull of one of her least favourite of the malcontents. Okoye is particularly good with a sling. And she has very little patience with people she deems disrespectful to her king. T'Challa smiles at her.

"That will not be necessary. Not all problems can be solved by punching."

She raises an eyebrow as if to silently indicate what a ludicrous statement that is and sets up the board for another game.

*

T'Challa is late. He's never late, not without profuse apologies and explanations. Bucky occupies himself with warmups while he waits, takes a few shots at the heavy bag, its straps and hardware upgraded to take the extra force of his metal arm. A woman Bucky recognizes as one of T'Challa's bodyguards enters the room. Her hair is close-cropped, cheekbones prominent, her expression purposefully blank. She's almost as tall as Bucky and not wearing heels, wearing loose-fitting black clothes. Her face and head are tattooed in a symmetrical pattern that probably has some kind of meaning he isn't aware of and probably isn't allowed to know about. He tries to look at them without staring.

"His Highness sends his apologies that he cannot make it today. He asked me to entertain you in his place."

How do Wakandans manage to make a neutral tone of voice sound so… not neutral? Bucky doesn't expect anyone in Wakanda to like him, but he's still amazed at how subtly they manage to convey it. Maybe to a Wakandan it's not subtle at all. Bucky's ability to pick up social cues is still pretty damaged.

"What's your name?"

"Nakia."

"That's a nice name."

She doesn't respond. Bucky averts his eyes for a second and pulls a face.

"You don't have to stay," he says. "I'm fine on my own."

"His Highness asked me to take his place."

Her gaze is level. She doesn't move. He frowns in confusion. It takes him a moment to realize that she's asserting something: she takes orders from T'Challa, not from him. Bucky shrugs.

"All right."

He steps back into the middle of the room and rolls his shoulders. Nakia follows him, gracefully, never taking her eyes off his face.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Yes," she says, sounding a little impatient.

Bucky feints to the left, but it doesn't fool her. She's ready for the right-handed blow, grabs his arm, pulls him towards her, and kicks him-- hard-- in the ribs. It knocks the wind out of him for a second. He disengages as quickly as he can. She moves a lot like T'Challa does, catlike, no energy wasted. Bucky wonders if it's some secret Wakandan martial art. He knows on some level of his consciousness that he's trained in several lethal martial arts himself, but what they do is different. Harder to predict. It's no wonder T'Challa nearly killed him.

Nakia drops and sweeps her leg, but Bucky sees it coming and jumps. He tries to take advantage of her lowered profile, goes in for the attack, and she catches him, uses his weight to throw him over her shoulder. He manages to catch his weight on his hands and rolls over, out of reach. He's on his feet again in less than a second, but Nakia closes the distance between them with alarming speed. They trade blows, arm blocking fist, redirecting momentum to unbalance the enemy. She keeps her eyes locked on him the whole time. It's unsettling. He can only assume that it's meant to be.

Bucky manages a glancing blow with his cybernetic arm, and her face tightens a little. She holds his arm and twists her hips to kick him in the head. He sees stars for a moment. He shakes his head to clear it and just manages to fend off another attack, rapid-fire, pushing him backwards to the wall. If she corners him, he's fucked. He ducks under a fist and somersaults, back into the middle of the room. He's running now, which is bad, but Nakia is too fast, which is worse.

She keeps pace with him, relentless. He gets her shoulder in a hold with his metal arm, but she does some kind of twisting movement and throws him, literally throws him. Surprisingly strong given her slender frame. He rolls, gets up, and grins at her in admiration. The corner of her mouth quirks. Then she comes after him again-- block parry pivot kick-- and this time she does back him up against the wall. Her knee comes up and hits his ribs, her fist nailing him right in the solar plexus. Bucky gets a grip on her arm with his artificial one, manages to use her momentum against her to flip her backwards. She catches herself neatly on her hands and flips again, back on her feet.

Someone applauds, and the two of them stop and turn, breathing hard. T'Challa is standing just inside the door with another bodyguard-- Thandiwe. Bucky's still learning their names.

"Very impressive," he says, although it's not clear which of them he's talking to. "I expected to find you unconscious on the floor by now."

He looks at Bucky as he says it, his eyes bright, smile bright. He sounds disappointed. Bucky gives him a dirty look.

"I probably would have been, if you'd showed up any later."

He's not exaggerating, although he might be saying it out loud to get on her good side.

"And what about you, Nakia?" T'Challa asks. "Did you find him a challenge?"

"It was a diverting exercise, beloved," she says lightly.

If she had more hair, she'd be tossing it. Bucky grins. He offers his hand, and she takes it, shakes it firmly.

"You are a worthy adversary," she says, and then she walks out of the room.

T'Challa claps a hand on his shoulder and grins.

"I think she likes you."


	13. Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

The kitchen in the bungalow is very good-- not as good as some others in the palace, but still quite good. It has gas hobs, a pair of deep sinks, and an island in the midst of it with a wooden cutting surface. Bucky stands there and cuts vegetables. It's the only work T'Challa will trust him with. He mumbles to himself in outrage and lets the knife hit the board as hard as he can.

"Please don't cut off any other limbs," T'Challa says absently. "I think one metal arm is enough."

The aforementioned metal limb gives him the middle finger, and T'Challa grins. He browns some butter in a broad frying pan. Some of the ingredients for dinner are close to hand-- a bottle of sherry, a bottle of red wine, a selection of fresh herbs. Their scent wafts over the smell of the butter. T'Challa's stomach growls.

"Can you take the fillets from the refrigerator, please?" he asks Bucky.

"Of course, my liege."

T'Challa quirks an eyebrow at him, but he only grins. Bucky's been acting a little odd today. It's hard for T'Challa to pin down exactly what it is. He doesn't quite seem like himself. Perhaps it's more his appearance than anything else-- T'Challa still has not gotten used to this neatly-groomed man who goes by the same name as his friend. Bucky sets the fillets down on the other side of the range. He picks up the bottle of cooking sherry and takes a swig. T'Challa raises an eyebrow but says nothing. There's a peculiar tension in the air, and he suspects if he says something critical, Bucky might withdraw again. T'Challa flicks his wrist and tosses the fillets in the pan to sear. Bucky snorts.

"Show-off."

"I learned to cook in Paris," T'Challa says. "From a real French chef."

Bucky laughs. He leans back against the counter, and T'Challa keeps his eyes on the pan so that they stay away from the curves of Bucky's arms.

"Of course you did. What, did you go to cooking school in between degrees?"

"No," T'Challa says patiently. "Someone I was seeing at the time taught me."

He regrets saying it as soon as the words leave his lips, although he's not entirely sure why. He doesn't look at Bucky. He doesn't want to see the expression on his face. He flips the fillets over with a spatula.

"D'you have _any_ shortcomings?" Bucky asks. "I mean, like, anything?"

"I have flaws, like any other man."

"Oh yeah, I'm sure you don't always floss every day. You cheat at solitaire?"

"I'm not particularly good at chess," he admits.

Okoye can vouch for that. Bucky sucks his teeth, shakes his head. T'Challa puts the seared fillets in a pan and then shoves it in the oven, elbowing Bucky aside to open it. Bucky takes another swig of cooking sherry, and T'Challa shoots him a disapproving look. He takes the bottle from him and pours a little into the pan to deglaze.

"You won't be much help to me in the kitchen if you get drunk, you know."

Bucky lets out a bark of laughter. His lips are a little stained, purple-red from the sherry. He licks them, pink tongue flicking at the corner of his mouth. T'Challa watches that tongue moisten Bucky's lower lip, which he then pulls between his teeth. Realising he's staring, T'Challa averts his eyes. He keeps his eye on the sauce in the frying pan. It will be easy to burn it and ruin it if he isn't careful.

"I'm not gonna get drunk from three swigs of cooking sherry," Bucky says. "It's hard for me to get hammered. I tried, trust me."

T'Challa can imagine it, and it makes his heart feel heavy. The thought of Bucky alone in his dingy Bucharest apartment, drinking vodka straight from a bottle. Wearing that horrible baseball cap. Why do Americans love baseball caps so much? He would ask, but it would seem like a non sequitur.

"Well, you are nothing if not tenacious," he says instead. "Open the wine? Are those vegetables ready?"

"Yes, they're ready, cut to military precision, your majesty."

Bucky moves towards the island to scoop them up, then changes his mind and steps back to open the wine. He turns just as T'Challa turns around to say something, and their chests collide. They stand absolutely still. Bucky keeps his eyes downturned, his head pulled back a little. His jaw is set, as it often is, though with determination or fright is not clear. A hint of colour appears high on his cheeks. The muscles in his jaw flex. T'Challa knows that he should step back. Retreat. But there's a kind of gravity between them that holds him in place. Perhaps if they both stay very still and don't break the tension, they might be able to stay like this, suspended indefinitely within this highly charged moment.

Bucky raises his eyes, grey in this light. T'Challa looks down at Bucky's mouth-- red lower lip caught between his teeth. It has its own gravity, and T'Challa is caught in its event horizon. Time seems to slow. He wonders how Bucky's stubble would feel against his face. Wonders if Bucky's mouth tastes of sherry. There are so many reasons this is not a good idea, but those thoughts are distant, light years away from the stellar collision happening here. Bucky has his own momentum-- he tilts his head slightly to the left. It's the tiniest of movements, but it breaks T'Challa's resolve. He can feel Bucky's breath on his lips now, the sweet scent of the sherry. The infinitesimal distance between them closes. Their lips meet. Bucky's lips are warm, and his new stubble scratches a little against T'Challa's beard. T'Challa breathes in through his nose, slow and ragged. It doesn't calm him at all.

For a while they stay there, utterly still, lips together. This is a luxury, this long moment, before time starts again, before they return to the real world. Bucky's lips part ever so slightly for breath. He exhales, warm against T'Challa's mouth. His tongue touches Bucky's lips, they part further, and then Bucky's tongue meets his own. Bucky tips his head to one side, his arm coming to rest in the small of T'Challa's back. His mouth is hot. It burns, low in T'Challa's gut, and he knows that there is a point of no return that they are approaching at light speed. He breaks it, gasping, and looks away.

"I'm sorry. I should not have done that."

"Gonna have to disagree," Bucky mumbles, looking rueful.

T'Challa laughs. He feels suddenly giddy, dizzy with the taste of Bucky in his mouth. He takes a step back.

"It is not appropriate. You are my guest here."

"I'm a grown man capable of making my own decisions, is what I am. Don't pull that patronising Steve Rogers shit with me."

T'Challa narrows his eyes at Bucky, who looks suspiciously like he might have said that just to needle him. His grey eyes are gleaming. T'Challa thinks of a line from Hamlet then. _His greatness weigh'd, his will is not his own_. Then he feels pompous for thinking it.

"Then I should not have done that because I am King of Wakanda, and I should know better."

Bucky softens, and the way the tension and defiance melts from his face makes T'Challa want to kiss him again.

"People have taken advantage of you so long," T'Challa says gently. "I don't want to."

"It's not taking advantage," Bucky says, frowning. "I'm not a goddamn invalid. I'm not crazy. It's insulting--"

"That is not what I said at all. It's not a question of your judgment, it's a question of mine."

Bucky looks at him askance. T'Challa's stomach drops as he realises how Bucky's taken it.

"Thanks. Thanks a hell of a lot."

He stalks out of the kitchen, and T'Challa sighs. He never was very good at this. He's always privately thought that there might be some merit to arranged marriages, not that he ever would have admitted as much to either of his parents or his uncle. No dating, no uncertainty, no question of where things were going. Simpler. A candidate vetted and approved. All the options weighed by all parties involved. Not very romantic. But practical.

*

Bucky isn't really sure where he's stomping off to at first, but once he rounds the corner towards his bedroom, he decides it's out to the garden, through the sliding glass door. The sun is lower in the sky, and sitting out here watching it get dark sounds much more appealing right now than any food in the world. Bucky can smell jasmine-- that one he's at least learned to identify-- and some other floral scent. The sweetness in the air feels like a mockery. Bucky folds in on himself and watches the sun set. He hears the door open. In his peripheral vision he can see T'Challa crossing the grass. He ignores him, knees up, arms circled around them.

Inside him there's a quaking, like the rumble just before a dam collapses. The psychological equivalent of groaning steel girders that struggle to support something. It's been so long since he felt anything for anyone, he doesn't know if this is normal or not. The sexual attraction at least is easy to identify. That's instinctual, lodged in the lizard hind-brain and muscle memory. It's the other stuff that Bucky can't cope with. He knows that once upon a time, he did. He recalls being a bit of a ladies' man-- and sometimes a man's man. It seemed so easy, so natural, at the time. Flirtation. Pursuit. Flattery mixed with honest compliments, and slowly edging closer until he could feel the other person's heat through their clothes. None of it makes sense now. It's as foreign as this place is, just as baffling and full of traps.

T'Challa sidles up to him and sits down.

"I'm sorry," Bucky says. "I don't know… it's like I forgot how to be a person."

"Don't be sorry," T'Challa says softly. "What I said was insulting."

"Yeah, but I get it. You're a king. You can't make time with just anybody, I guess. Least of all somebody like me."

"That's not… that doesn't matter. I've come to consider you a friend, someone I care for a great deal."

Bucky is quiet for a bit.

"I know."

"It feels to me like I would be taking advantage of you."

Bucky frowns.

"How's that? It's kind of a mutual thing. At least it's supposed to be. I mean, I don't know how you do it in Wakanda…"

He hears a soft _whuff_ of breath as T'Challa laughs. It punctures some of the tension in the air. Bucky relaxes a little and allows himself a tiny smile. An acrid smell drifts across the garden. They look at each other with dawning horror, then scramble towards the kitchen. Even at superhuman speed, they're too late. In the oven, the fish has burned. The sauce on the stove has burned. T'Challa swears colourfully in Wakandan and turns everything off. Looks like they'll be ordering in.

"Some cook you are," Bucky says.

T'Challa gives him a dark look and then stands there with his hands braced on the counter, irritated.

"At least we still have wine?" Bucky offers.

T'Challa turns, and their eyes meet by accident. Bucky feels the earth drop out from under him. He tilts his head a fraction of an inch. Then T'Challa is against him, kissing him, pressing his ass against the edge of the kitchen counter, immediate and warm. Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat and throws his arms around T'Challa's shoulders. He feels like he's up on his tiptoes and still rising. _How long has it been since anybody kissed you?_ No time to think about that right now.

His hands slip down to the curve of T'Challa's ass and pull him closer. He gives a little roll of his hips. His teeth catch T'Challa's lower lip. A shared gust of breath, and then Bucky pivots and starts to walk backwards, pulling T'Challa with him. They move incrementally towards the bedroom, and the closer they get, the more out of control Bucky can feel himself becoming.

"Thought about all the things I wanted you to do to me," he murmurs. "God, so many things."

"You talk too much," T'Challa replies.

Bucky tilts his head to whisper right in his ear. The words tumble out of his mouth, filthy things he'd forgotten he knew how to say. He surprises himself with the breadth and variety of his obscenities. T'Challa stands utterly still for a moment and then shuts him up with a kiss. His fingers tangle in Bucky's hair. They grind against each other, harder, and he nearly loses it then, before T'Challa's even touched him. It's like being a teenager again, rolling around on someone else's bed, hard as hell and doing his damnedest to get some friction against his cock. Maybe if he's lucky, a hand or a mouth. Bucky rocks his hips upward and lets loose again. He can't even let himself hope.

"Nnhhh… you feel-- so goddamn good… god, the things I'd do to you. I can taste you already… ahh… fuck, harder… god… want you so bad… do whatever you want to me, whatever you want, use me, fuck me, god _dammit_ …"

"Oh, dear god."

His back hits the wall. T'Challa's mouth is relentless. He braces himself with one hand and uses the other to stroke Bucky through his pants. Bucky lifts his hips into it, lip caught between his teeth, breathing hard. He's on the edge. T'Challa's hardon presses into his hip, and suddenly he wants that more than anything, wants T'Challa inside him as deep as he can get. He whispers it, and as soon as the words leave his lips he knows it's over. He comes in his pants with a mortifying moan. His limbs go loose. T'Challa looks at him with so much heat that Bucky can't look at him. He wants to keep talking, to urge T'Challa to fuck him, use him, do him, but his tongue feels thick. He has to settle for T'Challa kissing him hard and rolling his hips against him. Bucky's hands slide over his back. It feels impossibly hot, cotton sticking to skin that's stretched over his muscles like God Himself put the man together by hand.

Somehow Bucky gets his legs to work, and T'Challa tugs him into the bedroom. The lights are off, but the curtains on the sliding doors are open. Stumbling a little, Bucky crosses to the doors and yanks the cord to pull the curtains closed. When he turns around, T'Challa is dropping his undershirt, completely naked, even more gorgeous than Bucky could have expected. His breath catches. 

" _God_."

His voice is hoarse. Somehow he resists the urge to drop to his knees. T'Challa averts his eyes as he smiles, suddenly a little bashful, and… is he _blushing_? Bucky pulls his shirt off over his head and tosses it aside. T'Challa's eyes track downward, then back up. To the left, and Bucky realises he's looking at the scar tissue on his shoulder. He touches it absently with metal fingers. He steps forward into T'Challa's space and kisses him again, harder. Fingers dig into the flesh of his ass, and his breath catches.

Bucky uses what energy he has left to push him back onto the bed and climb on top of him. Now that he's come, he feels languid and warm, and he smiles as he slides downward, off the end of the bed to his knees. He looks up at T'Challa, lying still, hard, watching him with those huge dark eyes. He doesn't try to stop Bucky or say _you don't have to_ , which is a relief, he realises. He's tired of people treating him like he can't make his own decisions.

His lips close around T'Challa's cock, hard and hot in his mouth, and how could he have forgotten what this was like? His imagination pales in comparison to the smell and taste of sex. It's been a very long time since he gave someone head, but whatever he might lack in skill he's intent to make up with sheer enthusiasm. It floods back to him, how much he liked doing this. He spares a glance upward. T'Challa's gaze is unfocused, his long eyelashes flutter. He runs his fingers through Bucky's hair, winds them in it and gently tugs. Bucky moans around him, eyes closing. His tongue flicks, and T'Challa's back arches. The muscles in his stomach flex, and the movement drives his cock further into Bucky's mouth. Bucky takes it in until it's pressing the back of his throat, swallows. His eyes water. He can hear T'Challa breaking, he can feel it under him, in his mouth and on his tongue. He moans around T'Challa's cock again, louder this time, and T'Challa comes, hard, down the back of his throat, his fingers tightening in Bucky's hair. Bucky swallows eagerly. He gives one last teasing flick of his tongue before he sits back and drags the back of his hand across his mouth.

He can't help feeling a little pleased with himself. His chest aches with the realisation that he's gone so long without this, without touch, without physical comfort, without sex and release. He'd forgotten how goddamn good it feels, how _necessary_ , to make someone else feel good. He licks his lips, mostly for effect, and looks up at T'Challa. The glazed-over look on T'Challa's face makes him grin. He looks utterly wrecked, and Bucky couldn't be happier. For the first time in as long as he can remember, he feels like a person again. And for some reason he really wants a cigarette.

It would make him dizzy, probably make him puke, but there's some nostalgia even in that. He's come to appreciate ordinary sensations, good or bad. Even puking up his lunch after a particularly rough session with the hallucinogens. These things remind him that he's not a weapon anymore. He's not a _thing_. He climbs back up the bed and sinks down next to T'Challa. Hands cradle his face, and then T'Challa's tongue sweeps into his mouth. They share a long, slow kiss. Bucky drops his head onto T'Challa's shoulder and sighs. He nuzzles T'Challa's neck.

"Not bad for a hundred-year-old man, eh?"

T'Challa laughs.

"Considerably better than 'not bad.'"

He's not sure if T'Challa's just being kind or if he means it. Doesn't particularly care. He can always work on his technique. It is very important to stay in practice, after all. Bucky thinks briefly about doing this in T'Challa's office, sucking his cock under the desk, and swallows hard. He tucks the thought away. Jerkoff Inspiration #945.

"May I ask you something?" T'Challa says.

"Sure."

"It's very personal."

"It's not like you don't know everything about me anyways."

Everyone knows everything about him. His life for the last eighty-odd years is a declassified file, leaked to the public on the internet.

"I mean in an intimate way."

"For god's sake T'Challa, just say it."

"You and Steve…"

Bucky laughs, then laughs again, louder.

"No, no. I mean, we fooled around a few times. Just trying stuff out. I taught him how to kiss girls. Blew him once, not long after we became the Howling Commandos, just before we left London again."

"Why?"

Bucky snorts.

"Have you _seen_ him? I mean, christ. It was hard to get my head around it, that this spectacular hunk of man was Steve, _my_ Steve. The little guy I left in Brooklyn. God, it was weird. I think it still is."

He pauses. It's less difficult to talk about it now than it used to be, he realizes. He supposes that's the whole point of all this. Getting better. Healing. Coming back to himself.

"Did you resent him for changing?" T'Challa asks.

Bucky's always tried not to about it consciously, and he's tempted to deflect with a joke. It's an ugly, selfish thought, and Steve has always deserved the best of him. It's not something Dr Okereke has delved into yet, although she'll probably get to it eventually. The woman is relentless. Like a terrier with a soft East African accent. Bucky shrugs.

"Probably a little. Not about him being big or strong or whatever, like jealousy. It was… where did _my_ Steve go? He was such a pretty little guy. Fragile. But tough at the same time. And then he wasn't. Small, I mean. What's Dr Okereke call it… _psychological rigidity and emotional ambivalence_. I don't think I ever really got used to it. Then everything changed. We started taking down Hydra, and then. I-- fell."

In every sense of the word. Sometimes it still feels like he's falling. He wakes up at night reaching upward, unaware that he's lying on his back on solid earth. Anxiety blooms in his chest. He swallows and focuses on the act of breathing, in and out. He doesn't want to think about any of that right now. Just his breath, and the warmth of the body next to him.

"But he found you."

"Yeah. He saved me. _Again_."

"Did you ever think that perhaps you've saved him too?" T'Challa asks.

Bucky snorts.

"Deep."

T'Challa pokes him in the ribs, right in the midst of a bruise.

"I'm going to put you back in the freezer tomorrow."

Bucky scoffs.

"Not before you fuck me, I hope."

T'Challa stares. Bucky smiles and tousles his own hair in a way he knows is appealing. He remembers, from before. He shoots T'Challa a crooked smile in the hope that maybe they can stop talking about this and get back to the matter at hand. He's not tired, and he's interested to know just how far their bodies can go in one night.


	14. An unweeded garden that grows to seed things rank and gross in nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: gun violence

If anyone has the slightest idea where T'Challa was last night and into this morning, they are prudent enough not to make it known. The Dora Milaje knew he was going to the bungalow for dinner with Bucky, but none of them betray any amusement or disapproval. He feels no embarrassment about it, apart from a private sense of disappointment in himself for being so weak, but all the same, it is best kept a personal matter. He would feel this way about anyone. Being involved with him brings... complications.

He dated during his school and college years, but never seriously and always with the awareness that he would forever be separate from those he considered his peers. He'd tried concealing his identity, but invariably the truth came out, and one way or another, the relationship ended. Now, as king, he has an entirely different obligation. _His greatness weigh'd, his will is not his own_. Already members of the royal family and less prudent courtiers have suggested marriage possibilities, and he has told them in no uncertain terms that now is not the time. Eventually he will have to do his duty, find a wife, produce heirs, but until then he's stated firmly that the vagaries of royal couplings would only be a distraction.

Although Bucky himself is turning out to be something of a distraction. The whole way to N'Jadaka, T'Challa thinks of little else, although there is plenty to think about with regards to that village, awkwardly paused between the simplicity of marsh tribes and the sophistication of the city. He catches himself smiling at nothing, and thank the Panther God for the loyalty and discretion of his staff, because they must see that something is on his mind, and for once, something that doesn't make him frown. If he were anyone else, he could confide in someone. A sibling, a friend, a mentor. If he were an ordinary man, he could ask for advice on what to do about this strange surprise, whether to cultivate it or abandon it. If he were his own man, he could choose. If he were his own man, the choice would already be made.

"Your Highness," Dayo says, tentatively. "I have some things for you to sign-- the agreement you brokered with the Jabari. I also have a copy of the latest report on your trust-- it's having an excellent impact on the adoption of technology in rural Wakanda."

He signs what must be signed and sets the report aside to read later. He's in no state of mind to look at it now. Internally he practises his address. It must be eloquent enough to be kingly, but not so polished that it sounds scripted. Rural Wakandans are more mistrustful of pretty words than their urban counterparts, and T'Challa doesn't blame them. How many heads of state and politicians have got by purely by the sound of their speeches instead of what they actually did? And with the unrest in the outskirts of Wakanda, the people are even more edgy than usual.

"Dayo, what did I do with that report on the violence near the border?"

"Would you like a hard copy or on your _kimoyo_?"

"Hard copy, if you have one. I've looked at too many screens today."

She hands him an alarmingly thick report on some skirmishes that have happened near and on Wakanda's borders. On the surface they could pass for ordinary inter-tribe conflicts-- there are certainly enough of those-- but something about them has been nagging at him. They don't _feel_ quite right, and whether there's substance to it or whether it's just his tired mind shadowboxing, he wants to get to the bottom of it. He suspects that somewhere in it is this man, the ominously-- and idiotically-- named Killmonger, a former exile that T'Challa repatriated and who has made him regret it ever since.

"Killmonger will be there today, I assume," he murmurs.

"Yes, Your Highness. He's provided us with a list of his attendants, and he's assured us that his security forces have swept the area." She lowers her voice. "The Dora Milaje will perform their own search once we arrive."

"Good. Satellite imaging?"

"Nothing of note, although we won't receive the most recent images for an hour."

It would feel like paranoia, if not for what happened to his father-- and if not for what happened to those before him. Assassination is a common cause of death for Wakandan kings. T'Challa can name all of them over the past two hundred years: when they died, and whether they went peacefully or by force. Entirely too many shuffled off this mortal coil before their time. He does not intend to be the next.

That said, his subjects in more isolated areas have different expectations for his accessibility. It's a fine line to walk between keeping himself safe and contributing to the already-prevalent notion that the king is out of touch with the common people. He must prove himself to them, not rely on his father's popularity. He must reassure them. They already question the wisdom of dismantling their isolationist policies, which is part of the reason he is here. That, and to keep a close eye on the violence that keeps breaking out, which may or may not be the work of Killmonger.

As they approach the landing site, he puts on his cowl, and the cloak that is reserved for formal state functions and occasions when the need to impress outweighs its impracticality and, in his opinion, silliness. It's a holdover from the past, a symbolic thing that people are strangely attached to. One of his private anxieties is that the damn thing will get caught in something-- or worse, he'll trip over it.

T'Challa operates more or less on autopilot throughout the greetings, the introductions, and the shaking of hands. He conserves his energy. There's no telling what he'll be confronted with while he's here. He must be prepared for all contingencies.

"Your Highness," Killmonger says, taking his hand.

"Very kind of you to invite me here," T'Challa responds, and he's suddenly very glad that the cowl prevents Killmonger from seeing the contempt in his syes.

The party does a brief circuit around the outside of town. There's a new water treatment facility and a new apartment block, small but significant signs that rural Wakandans are improving their infrastructure. Some prefer the old ways, agriculture and animal husbandry and an existence for the most part unperturbed by globalisation and the 24-hour news cycle. This he also respects, and he sometimes worries that those aspects of Wakandan culture are as endangered as his critics claim they are.

After the tour, the party takes to a dais, where several people will be speaking, himself, as the king and highest-ranking person, last. He listens with the surface of his mind while underneath he analyses the words for subtext, hidden meaning. There is always more being said than the words that are spoken.

It's no surprise to him that, when it's his turn, Killmonger's first line of attack is the influence of the white Western world on Wakanda. It's a favoured topic among discontents, the worry that Wakanda will be diluted by foreign influence, particularly white influence, and what makes it all the more disconcerting is its basis in history. Wakanda has watched Europe pillage the rest of Africa and bleed it dry, so their mistrust of outsiders is completely justified. T'Challa has no intention of letting that happen to Wakanda. He trusts very few people in power in the western world, although he would never say so.

After his father's exile, Killmonger spent some time abroad in the United States, in Harlem, specifically. He mentions it frequently. One of his favoured strategies is to call up this time in America and to discuss the demons that haunted it. Racism, lynchings, police brutality, substance abuse, poverty, crime. If T'Challa had not been to New York, and specifically Harlem, himself, he might be tempted to believe that evil and misery was all there was to offer there. He can see people in the crowd becoming restive. Killmonger is an impressive speaker and an imposing presence, but he lacks the judgment to know when he's said enough.

Perhaps the most disturbing aspect of Killmonger's rhetoric is the way that it resembles the truth just closely enough to cause trouble. Killmonger has a gift for giving voice to things that even T'Challa thinks sometimes, but would never say. He is the dark underbelly of Wakandan pride and independence. That is Killmonger's keenest weapon, the one with which T'Challa suspects he will soon use to drive a wedge between the king and his people. It's only a matter of time before he makes his move and condemns himself, but in the meantime his slyness and subtlety make T'Challa's skin crawl.

By the time Killmonger finally winds down and makes way for T'Challa to speak, he's crafted his counterargument. Perhaps one of the only benefits of Killmonger's long-windedness is that it provides plenty of time to think. T'Challa steps up to the podium and waits for the applause and cheering to die down before he begins with the usual acknowledgments of the kindness of his hosts and the beauty of the city around him. He works his way up slowly, marking a path and then leading the people along it to where he wants them to go. Manipulative, yes, but not all manipulation is evil.

"I know that there are those of you who disagree with our foreign policy. There are some who would see Wakanda shrink back into itself, hide away from a world that does not understand us, a world that even fears us. My father did not make his decision lightly. He knew the risks of a more open relaiontship with the world, but he also knew what I know:

"Wakanda is mighty, and has always been. For thousands of years we have endured."

A cheer erupts from the crowd, and then he continues. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth to talk about Wakanda's military power; he can't help but wonder if it reinforces the uglier aspects of their country.

"And if we fear no one, if we know our strength, then what can the rest of the world do to us? Our strength comes not from our isolation from the world, but from our connection to each other. Death, hatred, suffering-- these are human traits, but so are empathy, kindness, and courage.

"The world is full of evils that we have kept at bay. What do we do with that knowledge, with that power? Do we simply stand aside and let others suffer? Is that what it means to be strong, to be mighty? Wakanda has always prided itself on being a paragon, a virtuous state in a world where corruption, graft, and treachery are widespread. If we are truly virtuous, then it is our duty not to stand on the bodies of others, but to lift them up! This is what it means to be Wakandan: to be proud, to be courageous, and also to be kind. That is true strength, and so I say to you that Wakanda is stronger than ever! Power to Wakanda, to its people, its history, and its future!"

The crowd goes into hysterics, although it's difficult to say whether his words or pure adrenaline are responsible. T'Challa resists the urge to look back at Killmonger. Even with the mask on, it would look self-satisfied.

He steps back and turns to his hosts, and the crowd lights up with people recording the moment. Nothing has been done, nothing has been said, except that T'Challa has reasserted himself as a voice of reason. Sometimes that is all that is necessary.

In his peripheral vision there is a flash of light and then a sudden searing pain in his bicep-- something hot rips through the fabric of his suit. The Dora Milaje are on him immediately, crushing him to the ground despite the fact that he is more well-armored than all of them. He schools his limbs to lie still, to do as he's been instructed, despite the burst of adrenaline. What good are his hard-won superhuman abilities if he's not permitted to use them? He ought to be doing is chasing down whoever fired that weapon and mincing them thoroughly, not lying helplessly on the ground. But he promised Ramonda that he would be careful, that he would err on the side of caution. The death of T'Chaka still haunts them all. These are the moments when he truly hates being king, when his duty as a human being comes into direct conflict with his duty.

They hurry to the jet as a unit, with T'Challa huddled inside. Once all his staff are aboard, the jet lifts off and makes for the palace at high speed. T'Challa inspects the wound on his arm.

"Some kind of energy weapon, beloved-- it came from that new apartment building. I knew we should have done a more thorough sweep! Where is Thandiwe? I will have words with her--"

"Please, Nakia, you have all done your duty. I am fine-- it's only a burn. Please-- all right."

He submits to her ministrations, if only to distract her from berating Thandiwe.

"Do we have any other intelligence?" he asks.

Dayo pauses in the midst of a holographic collection of data.

"Coming in, Your Highness, but it will take some time to sift through. There should be sufficient video for us to model the incident and learn more."

"I should have remained standing," he says, more to himself than anyone else. "What must it look like, that I was hurried away?"

"Prudence, beloved," Nakia says. "Those who don't know that you are still alive cannot give any thought to a second attempt."

"Of course."

If he were in his right mind, he would have thought of that himself. Strategic, even in retreat. Nonetheless, they will have to report the failure of the attempt, and sooner rather than later. He sinks into thought. Someone was responsible for this. Someone who knew he would be there. Someone who knew that he would be accessible. He resists the urge to theorise without any information and instead thinks about what he will say to the nation when he affirms that he is still very much alive.


	15. As you are friends, scholars and soldiers

It's extremely inconvenient that T'Challa has to be somewhere the next day, but maybe it's just as well. He's up before dawn while Bucky revels in warm, slightly tender semiconsciousness. He's not sure if T'Challa pauses to kiss him before he goes, or if he just dreamed it. He lies in bed late into the morning, just because he can. Periodically he has to wonder if all of it was just in his imagination, a very elaborate hallucination, but then a flex of his body highlights the ache in his ass, and he bites his lip and smiles.

He finally forces himself out of bed when the sun is well up in the sky and his stomach will no longer take no for an answer. He shuffles into the kitchen to put coffee on and find something to eat. Suddenly he really wants a grilled cheese sandwich. He reads through the news while he gets out the cheese and bread, sets them next to the stove and reaches down to take a pan out of the cupboard. There's a new historical series starting soon on Wakandan public TV. Not that Bucky's Wakandan is remotely up to the challenge of TV dialogue, but he could probably figure out the basics. Then he sees the words ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT, and his whole body goes cold.

"No…"

He pulls up the news story. It's frustratingly short, essentially just a few sentences saying that someone tried to kill T'Challa. Bucky texts Nakia and Okoye. And Dayo and Nareema. And Thandiwe.  

> IS HE OK????

The next ten minutes are interminable. Bucky repeatedly refreshes the news feed, searches the internet every minute for new information. There are no updates. He tells himself that if they'd succeeded, the word 'attempt' wouldn't have been there in the headline, that it would have said 'KILLED' or something. It doesn't make him feel any better. He sets the _kimoyo_ down and paces, starts planning agonizing punishments for whoever's responsible. He could find them, he's sure of it, but they'd better hope someone without a cybernetic arm finds them first.

Finally, his _kimoyo_ beeps, and Bucky snatches it up. It's a message from Nakia. 

> hes fine

followed by

> dont worry

"Easy for you to say," he mutters.

He sits down again and tries to remember the breathing exercises. In on one, out on two. In on three, out on four. Up to ten, then start over. It calms him a little, but he's not going to be able to relax in earnest until he sees for himself that T'Challa is unharmed. Until he can touch him and reassure himself.

The moment he picks up the beat of helicopter rotors in the distance, Bucky jumps up from the sofa to run out the door. He realizes mid-sprint that he's not wearing shoes. Too late. Not important. He runs through the halls of the palace at top speed, veers around a corner and then bursts into the anteroom that leads to T'Challa's office.

Steve and Sam jump to their feet. Stare.

"... Bucky?"

"Oh, fuck. Um. Hi, Steve."

"You…" Steve points at the new arm. "You're…"

Then a brick wall collides with him and he gets squeezed into the tightest hug he's ever experienced. He can't breathe for a few seconds.

"Christ Steve, break a rib why don't you."

Steve steps back, his hands grasping Bucky's arms. He looks at Bucky as if he's not entirely sure he's the same person he left behind in deep freeze. Bucky supposes in a lot of ways he isn't. He runs a hand through his newly short hair and grins sheepishly. He keeps forgetting about it until someone new sees him and stares.

"Are you-- I-- how'd--"

"We'll play Twenty Questions later. Is he here yet?"

Steve frowns.

"Just landed. So you heard, then."

"Yeah."

"He's okay," Steve reassures him, although he doesn't think Steve actually knows for sure. "We were on our way back when we heard."

Bucky can tell by the constipated look on his face that Steve wants to barrage him with questions. He looks over Steve's shoulder and nods at Sam.

"You're not getting a hug from me," Sam says.

Bucky laughs.

"I missed you too."

"Yo, looking good, Dr. Claw. Glad you finally got a damn haircut."

"Dr. Claw?" Steve and Bucky ask in unison.

"It's a cartoon-- you know what, never mind. I'll find some episodes on the internet later."

There's a murmur of approaching footsteps. The double doors open, and T'Challa and his entourage sweep in. Bucky forces himself to stay where he is, although he watches T'Challa like a hawk. He doesn't seem injured, maybe just a little shaken. Nakia and Okoye are maintaining a tight perimeter around him, and his assistant Dayo is giving an official comment to someone via her _kimoyo_. T'Challa gives the Dora Milaje a nod, and they escort a knot of people out with a gentleness that surprises Bucky. Dayo finishes her conversation and takes the earpiece from her ear. She and T'Challa speak for a moment, low voices, and then she walks out, casting a speculative eye at Sam, who casts one right back.

"Nakia, Okoye," T'Challa says, and he takes their hands. "Thank you for today. Please, go get some rest. I'll be fine."

The two women don't look at all convinced, despite the presence of three other enhanced human beings. Bucky knows they're protective of T'Challa beyond just their duty as bodyguards. They care about their king. He also knows how awful _he_ would feel if the person he was meant to be protecting nearly died. Nakia glances at him, and he gives her a nod.

" _Go_ ," T'Challa says. "Your relief will be here in a minute or so."

"We'll wait outside," Okoye says.

Then it's the four of them. Bucky's body is humming with adrenaline and the urge to throw his arms around T'Challa and kiss him on the mouth.

"Your Highness," Steve nods.

"How are you both?" T'Challa asks Steve and Sam. "I understand you came here with great haste."

"We did. We were actually on the way when we heard about the assassination attempt. Any leads?"

T'Challa shakes his head.

"What happened?"

T'Challa makes a gesture like he's flinging something upward, and a three-dimensional scene appears in blue light.

"This is compiled from all the video that was being taken at the time. As you can see…"

He zooms in.

"A sniper, in the corner of an apartment building. With an energy weapon of some sort, not a normal rifle."

Steve's face closes off in that way it does whenever he thinks he knows who's responsible for something.

"An energy weapon. The bolt, was it blue?"

"Yes."

"Hydra," Steve seethes, and his jaw does that twitchy thing it does when he's well and truly pissed off.

Times like this are the only times Bucky's ever found Steve scary. He's not sure if it's the milquetoast Nazi ideology, what they did to him, or just a lasting hatred borne out of the war and, well, Hydra. In any case, for Steve, the potential involvement of Hydra is like a red flag in front of a bull.

"It's possible. The Dora Milaje are investigating. The shooter was gone by the time they triangulated his position, but they are making inquiries about who the flat belongs to. They will find him. Please don't worry, I am fine."

He looks at Bucky when he says it. Bucky's not sure if Steve notices.

"Well, if you need any help…" Steve says.

"Thank you, my friend. But you also have bad news, I understand."

Steve nods, frowning. His lips are pulled in tight.

"It's a day for it, apparently. Secretary of State Ross is pushing to have us tried for treason, _in absentia_." He looks at Bucky. "All three of us."

"I thought I'd already been tried for treason," Bucky jokes.

Steve doesn't seem to pick up on it.

"With the Hydra files leaked to the public, there's plenty of evidence that you weren't responsible for your actions, even up to now. It would be absurd."

"It's Steve and me who should be worried," Sam says.

"No, it's _them_ who should be worried," Bucky says.

He's pretty sure his jaw is doing the same thing that Steve's is. And when _he_ does it, people should definitely be frightened. He's been through too much to really believe in patriotism, but he does still have an idea of right and wrong. And this is all wrong. Like Berlin. Bucky can only imagine the hell that broke loose in Berlin just after he did.

It was stupid of them. Careless in a way that verges on deliberate. All that security, and for what-- so Zemo could waltz right in and trigger him. Send him on a rampage. He shudders to think what might have happened if Steve and the others hadn't been there. A hand on his arm, and Bucky looks up to see Steve looking at him.

"I don't know that he'll actually get anywhere, but things are tense. Sharon suggested that Sam and I lie low here for a while."

"Stay as long as you need to," T'Challa says.

"It gets worse," Steve says. "There's pressure at the UN to take action on our violations of the Accords. Sharon says that since it's a UN agreement, the United States wouldn't be able to try us for violating it, so it might be better that way. The trial would have to be at The Hague. Problem is, the law around it is kind of a mess, and the US doesn't have the best track record of abiding by the court's judgment anyway. They could pass a resolution, but I'm not sure it would hold any water."

"The Hague?" Bucky asks, puzzled.

"The International Court of Justice, in the Netherlands."

"And what's the UN?"

Steve drops his head for a moment.

"I'm sorry Buck, I keep forgetting that you haven't had much time to catch up. The United Nations. They established it after the war. The idea was to keep that kind of thing from happening again."

Bucky raises an eyebrow.

"Did it work?"

Steve lifts a shoulder in ambivalence.

"We haven't had another world war?"

"Well, _that's_ real encouraging."

Sam yawns theatrically.

"Well, I don't know about the superhumans, but this regular human needs some sleep. I'm jetlagged as hell. I'll see all y'all tomorrow."

"G'night Sam."

"We should _all_ get some sleep," T'Challa says. "It's been a very long day."

"Can you give us a minute, Steve?" Bucky asks.

Steve looks surprised, puzzled, but not quite offended. He nods at T'Challa and steps out of the room. Now that they're alone, Bucky throws his arms around him and pulls him in, holds him close. The change in T'Challa's bearing is immediate. He seems to deflate a little into Bucky's embrace. Bucky's a little surprised that he doesn't resist, until he catches on that the king's in the middle of another panic attack. Now that the danger's gone, now that there's no one to see his human weakness, _now_ he can react. He allows himself to be enveloped by Bucky's arms and shakes.

"It's okay," Bucky whispers, as much to himself as to T'Challa. "You're safe. I've got you. Breathe… breathe. Good."

Bucky leads him to a plush sofa and sits them both down. T'Challa's hands are shaking too. Bucky takes them in his own. They feel weirdly cold. Bucky wraps his arm around T'Challa's shoulder and squeezes, and T'Challa jerks away.

"Hey…" Bucky says softly.

T'Challa shrugs off his jacket, and Bucky realizes then that he's only wearing an undershirt beneath it. On his left bicep is a bandage. Bucky goes back to full alert.

"I thought you said you were fine!"

"I _am_ fine," T'Challa says, a little impatiently. "It's just a graze. Whoever he was, his aim was not particularly good."

Bucky hugs him again and tries not to think about the fact that the Winter Soldier would not have missed. He shivers.

"Jesus. Weren't you wearing the suit?"

"I was, but it's made to resist small arms fire, not energy weapons. The suit managed to absorb the kinetic energy and the vibrations, but it still burned a hole in it. Fortunately it cauterized the wound, so there was no blood."

Bucky wraps his arm around T'Challa's waist and hugs him tight. He can feel panic rising in his chest now, even though the incident is long over. It's been so long since he felt anything for other people besides Steve, anything at all. Even his relationship with Steve is still tentative and pockmarked with guilt. Feeling this again, something significant, shakes him to his core.

Bucky wants very much to take him back to the bungalow and curl up behind him to sleep. Their eyes meet. Bucky leans in and kisses him, gently at first, aware that Steve's just on the other side of the door. T'Challa pulls him closer and deepens the kiss. Bucky wants to beg him to come back to the bungalow with him. _Stay with me_. Instead he nips at T'Challa's lip as a promise of things to come. They pull apart reluctantly.

"Come see me when you can," Bucky murmurs. "I gotta go have an awkward conversation with Steve."

T'Challa smiles faintly.

"You think he's going to be angry with you?"

"I'm definitely about to experience the brood of a lifetime."

He gets up and presses his lips to T'Challa's forehead. It's clammy and damp, and Bucky bites back another swell of rage. Their fingers cling together as Bucky walks towards the door, then reluctantly let go. Bucky gives him a last look before he opens the door and leaves.

There are two Dora Milaje standing guard just outside, not Nakia and Okoye but two others whose names escape him. Lucky. And… Bucky snaps his fingers. Aneka. He gives them a nod and goes to find Steve standing in the hallway with his hands in his pockets. Steve looks up as he approaches. The expression on his face is mostly puzzled, but probably a little hurt too. Bucky can't blame him. It's been a bad day, and it has to be weird to come back to find his cryogenically frozen best friend walking around with a new arm. He throws the arm around Steve's shoulders, and they walk down the halls of the palace, going nowhere in particular.

"How long have you been awake?"

Steve's voice sounds even, but even after all the memory wipes and all the time, Bucky can hear the hurt in it. He debates whether to lie and say only a few days. He tries to calculate the exponential increase in emotion that Steve's likely to experience with every week he elects to include.

"Three months."

Steve nods. His lips contract. His eyes are fixed on the floor. That muscle in his jaw is clenched. Is he angry? The thought makes pre-emptive anger bubble up inside, and Bucky quells it.

"You didn't call me," Steve says softly.

Bucky takes a deep breath and sighs.

"No, I didn't. I'm sorry."

"Are you really?"

Now Steve is looking at him. He doesn't seem angry, just… considering. Bucky meets his gaze, gains confidence from it somehow.

"No. I needed… I needed to be on my own for a while. I thought you'd understand."

"I do."

Bucky feels a squirm of guilt for misjudging. There's no sulking, no brooding, just Steve looking a little sad. That's far worse.

"I missed you, Buck."

"Missed you too, Steve."

Bucky grabs him with the cybernetic arm and gives his shoulders a squeeze. Steve looks down at it and back at him. There are questions in his eyes, but Bucky doesn't have it in him to answer them tonight.

"You look tired," Bucky lies.

"Nah, I'm fine."

"You're fulla shit, Rogers. Now go to bed. Don't make me drag you there."

Steve hesitates.

"We'll talk tomorrow?"

"Yeah. I'll tell you everything. G'night Steve."

"Night, Buck."

Steve steps away, reluctantly, and pauses. Bucky points with the metal arm, stonefaced. Steve puts up his hands up in surrender with a weak little smile. Bucky watches him walk away and then moves in the general direction of the bungalow. He takes the scenic route through the gardens, ambling, almost aimless. He doesn't feel particularly sleepy. He's too wound up still from the news of the assassination attempt, not to mention being tried for treason. It'll take him hours to settle down-- maybe less, with a Xanax. He stops to sniff some kind of trumpet-shaped flower that smells heavy and rich. Sits down and listens to the peeps and chirps of nighttime creatures. Closes his eyes. He tries to focus on his breath.

It doesn't surprise him that T'Challa comes to mind immediately. That bandage on his arm. The bionic hand closes into a fist. Bucky would like to ram it into the face of whoever's responsible for this. Repeatedly. He takes a deep breath. Goddamn, as if this situation wasn't confusing and complex enough already. He breathes out again. He does as he's learned to do: lets the thoughts come and go. Thoughts about Steve, his feelings about T'Challa, which he can't quite figure out and maybe doesn't want to. Revenge. Not just for himself and for the decades he lost, but for T'Challa and Steve and all of them whose lives are irrevocably fucked up. There are times he just wants to burn things down, destroy until there's nothing left. It's the closest he comes to being _soldat_ again, that cold hate and rage. He wants to think it frightens him-- it would frighten anyone else-- but the truth is, the only distinction between the Soldier and Bucky is that Bucky has people who love him. Bucky is capable of love. At least, he's reasonably sure he is.

Eventually he gets tired of thinking about destruction. He walks slowly back to the bungalow with his hands in his pockets. He crosses the garden, soft grass underfoot, and stops. There's a faint light in the bedroom. He left the house in the middle of the day. There were no lights on. He moves laterally, up against the side of the house. He edges towards the sliding door and dares a look inside.

Someone is in his bed. Bucky breathes a sigh of relief and then quietly opens the door. He slips inside. There's a sticky note on the lampshade.

> _couldn't sleep_

Suddenly tired, he pulls off his shirt and carefully climbs into bed. T'Challa seems to be asleep. Good. He smiles. He moves in as close as he can without disturbing T'Challa and then presses against him. If T'Challa wakes, he doesn't show it. Bucky throws an arm over him and pulls him close, kisses the back of his neck. He closes his eyes and breathes him in while he sinks into sleep.


	16. Two men there are not living to whom he more adheres

T'Challa is out of bed before dawn and gone. Bucky tells himself that it doesn't bother him. He gets up, showers, eats something, and then goes off to find Steve, who's probably tying himself in knots waiting to hear what's been happening and why Bucky didn't call him. Bucky asks around and finds Steve in one of the museum-like rooms on the south end of the palace, staring at ancient Wakandan weapons and reading about Black Panthers past. Or at least pretending to. He turns his head, then his whole body as he sees Bucky standing there. The smile on his face makes Bucky's heart hurt.

"Morning, jerk," he says.

They come together for a brief but tight hug.

"You look good, Buck. So are you…"

"Fixed? Nah. Dr O said it could take years to actually undo all the shit they did to my head. I have sessions just about every day. Drugs. Hypnotics, hallucinogens… some counterconditioning. And, uh, talk therapy. A lot of that."

Steve nods.

"And is it working?"

Bucky pulls his lips into a moue as he thinks.

"Yeah, I think so. I have good days and not so good days. Still have nightmares, a lot. But it's more good days than bad days now."

Steve gives him a smile so happy and sad that makes his chest feel like it's caving in.

"I'm glad. And the words? Did they get them out?"

"No. The trigger words are still in there, they're just trying to… reprogram them. It's pretty clever, actually. They drop one of the words in during a session to give me a different association with it. _желание_ \-- that's the first one. I couldn't even say it before. It was like, a countdown, when you start with ten, nine. So I'm making progress."

He doesn't mention to Steve that that's actually the first time he's said the word out loud, or that there's a feeling of dread deep in his stomach at the sound of it that he suspects he may never really be free of. His heart beats a little faster. Steve puts an arm around his shoulder.

"You seem like you're… you again."

Bucky shakes his head, shrugs.

"I mean, I'm me all the time. But the guy who fell off that train eighty years ago… that's not who I am anymore. Hasn't been for a long time."

He pauses to swallow and tries not to look Steve in the eye. Steve's putting on a brave face, but he's hurting. His reproach is palpable. Bucky doesn't know how to tell him that he needed to figure out who he is now, as his own person, not in terms of his relationship to Steve Rogers.

"I'm sorry, Buck."

"Sorry for what?"

"For everything."

Steve Rogers, a veritable Atlas, the world on his fucking shoulders.

"Give it a rest, Steve."

Shocked, Steve just blinks at him.

"I know that you feel responsible for me and for everything that's happened to me. But it wasn't your fault. None of it was. And it wasn't mine. Awful shit happened to both of us. What happened to you… what happened to me…"

"I should have--"

"Shut _up_ , Steve. Goddammit. Let me get five words out before you start trying to take the blame for everything."

Steve's face goes slack. Bucky resists the urge to apologize. His mouth is dry.

"We could've ended up anywhere-- ended up dead-- but somehow we survived. Not only did we survive, we found each other again. After eighty years. Eighty years! And yeah, it's fucked up, I have to live my life knowing I killed all those people, whether I wanted to or not. Knowing I tried to kill _you_."

His throat tightens.

"But there's no going back, there's no changing things. We have to accept what we are and what's happened to us. We have to keep on living."

Steve nods, silent. His eyes are bright. Bucky rests a hand on his shoulder.

"And I want you to know, I'd still follow that skinny kid from Brooklyn. To the end of the line."

Steve nods, lips pressed together. For a moment they're both quiet, and Bucky wonders if Steve's throat feels as prickly and constricted as his does. He doesn't have any objection to crying in front of Steve, it's just… he's so tired of crying in general. Steve's eyes redden, but the tears stay contained. He smiles and claps Bucky on the back. Captain Rogers, never bleeds on anyone. It's just as well, since it allows the tears retreat back down Bucky's throat.

"How's the new arm? You get wifi with that thing?" Steve quips.

"Oh shit, let me show you…"

He taps his metal fingers to his palm in sequence, and a holographic menu appears above his hand.

"Great. Took about a million years to attach the damn thing, but it works. These people make Tony Stark look like a kid with Tinkertoys."

He opens and closes his fist.

"Vibranium?"

"Among other things. Although this time they put a coating on the fingertips so it works with touch screens. That shit drove me nuts."

"Wow!" Steve says. "Did they integrate a _kimoyo_ into it?"

He says the word with something that sounds a little like envy.

"Kinda. The medical team monitors my vitals, brain waves, shit like that. It's got a full comms array-- they figured, since they were building a bionic arm anyway, they might as well make it even more badass."

Steve laughs. It's easier when Bucky can make him laugh. Things don't feel quite so painfully earnest and fraught. Bucky shuts off the display and looks down at his metal hand. He opens and closes it.

"I almost asked them not to," he says quietly.

"Not to what?"

"Not to replace it."

Steve frowns.

"Why?"

Bucky takes a deep breath and exhales.

"Because it's a weapon. It's a weapon I can't ever put down. Without it, I'm like… a human being, almost. I mean sure, I got the off-brand Hydra version of the super serum, but the arm's…"

"It wasn't your choice," Steve says, getting it, and Bucky nods.

"And I felt different without it. Less dangerous. But… I also felt like I was avoiding something. Refusing to acknowledge a part of me."

Steve seems to get it.

"But you did go through with it in the end."

Bucky nods again, smiles.

"Well, I had to. Who the fuck else is gonna keep you out of trouble?"

Steve laughs. They spend a quiet moment looking at the flowers, listening to the birds.

"It meant something, being able to decide. For the first time in a long time, I had a choice. It was kind of about… accepting. For better or worse. I was afraid of what would happen if I had an arm again, afraid of what I'd be capable of. It would have been like when I was hiding out. Kinda safe, but never really dealing with what happened to me, just… surviving. Just existing. Never coming to terms with it. Felt wrong."

Steve looks at him as if he's never seen him before, and Bucky wants to believe that the smile on his face is happy and not haunted. He's not sure Steve's ever experienced happiness that wasn't tempered by grief or tragedy. The guy's had a tough life, and it doesn't seem to be getting any easier. Bucky's thought about whether he might suggest Steve do some therapy, but he's reasonably sure Sam's already suggested that and been shot down. He winces at the metaphor.

"It doesn't have to be a weapon," Steve says, so quietly it's hard to hear.

"Hm?"

Bucky looks at him. He seems deep in thought, staring at nothing in particular.

"They made _me_ to be a weapon, but I don't have to be one. I hadn't really thought of it like that before."

"No, you don't, pal. And it's good to hear you say that."

Different origins, different changes, but not all that dissimilar for it. Still, Bucky worries that Steve's sense of duty is going to take him too deep. 

"Can I ask you something, Steve?"

"Sure."

"Do you ever wish you hadn't done it? The serum. Becoming Captain America. D'you ever wish you'd just stayed in Brooklyn like I fuckin' told you to?"

He's not sure why it's important to know, but it is. He gives Steve a sidewise look and watches Steve's face carefully for any sign of dishonesty. Steve has a rotten poker face, so if he's bullshitting, Bucky will be able to tell. Steve sighs.

"Sometimes I think about what my life would've been like-- I mean, assuming Schmidt hadn't destroyed the East Coast and taken over the world. And assuming you came back from the war."

He doesn't say it out loud, but Bucky can hear it in his voice. _I don't know what I would have done otherwise_. It chills him to the bone.

"You'd probably be a famous artist now," Bucky says, elbowing him. "Your paintings would be worth millions. 'Oh, is that a Rogers?' 'Yeah, from his blue period.'"

He gives Steve a smile. Slowly, Steve returns it. He wonders how long it's been since Steve drew anything. Maybe if he can get the guy to relax for five minutes he'll get in the habit again.

"Maybe," Steve says. "It doesn't matter, though. We're here, we made our choices, and there's no going back."

Bucky presses his lips together, smiles. He considers whether to point out that Steve didn't actually answer the question. A long silence stretches out between them. Bucky distracts himself by sizing up the alarm system on the glass cases, thinking about how long it would take him to be in and out with whatever object. Steve just transfixes.

"No," Steve says, and it's been so long since he spoke that Bucky isn't sure what he means at first.

"No?"

"No, I wouldn't do anything differently."

He looks Bucky right in the eye, deliberately or not, so Bucky knows he's being truthful. Bucky smiles.

"Good. 'Cause now you're stuck with me forever."

Steve laughs.

"To the end of the line?"

"To the end of the fuckin' line."

They pull each other into a tight hug, one that goes on and on until they hear someone's shoes scuffing the floor nearby. They let go of each other, and somehow Bucky's not surprised to see Sam standing there.

"Sorry, did I interrupt a moment?"

It sounds a little sarcastic, but when Bucky looks at Sam, he can see the relief in his face. Whether it's relief for Steve or for Bucky or both, he's not sure, but it warms him a little. It's good to know that Steve isn't on his own anymore, and Sam seems to be just as capable as he is of asking the important questions. Chiefly: Steve, what the fuck do you think you're doing?

"You want one too, birdman?"

"Birdman?" Sam scoffs. "I go to hyper security supervillain jail for your ass and this is the thanks I get. I see how it is, Terminator."

Bucky draws a blank. He finds himself doing that a lot around Sam.

"It's a movie," Steve says. "Well, a bunch of them. Robot from the future goes back in time to kill a guy. Then in the next movie he's the good guy."

Sam gestures at Bucky as if to say see? and Bucky raises an eyebrow.

"I didn't actually just come here to make fun of you, although that's a nice benefit. They found the sniper."

Bucky stands up straight.

"And?"

Sam shrugs.

"Someone got to him before they did. Bullet in the head. They're going through his stuff, trying to figure out if he was working for someone or was a Lee Harvey Oswald type."

"Who's-- never mind. What can we do to help?"

Sam shakes his head.

"Nothing. They made it very clear that they do not require superhuman assistance with this one. I don't blame 'em. Shit gets blown up when we're around."

"If they need our help, they'll tell us," Bucky says. "Trust me, you don't wanna try to help a Wakandan who hasn't asked for it."

"Well, we can't just sit here and do nothing," Steve says.

"God, you're a pain in the ass," Bucky says, and Sam laughs, loudly.

They share a look that maybe isn't friendship but resembles mutual respect, not to mention mutual understanding of what it's like to know Steve Rogers, professional pain in the ass. The three of them wander down the corridors. Steve's phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket and then almost as quickly shoves it back in. Not quick enough for Bucky to miss the name SHARON on the display.

"Uh, I'll catch up with you guys, okay?"

Bucky and Sam share a look, which makes Steve give them a different Look, and then he withdraws to have his conversation. The pair of them sit down on a bench in the atrium.

"Has he always been like this?" Sam asks.

"You're gonna have to be more specific."

"Just… I know the guy can flirt, he flirted with _me_."

"Steve's an idiot when it comes to women. I don't know why, especially since he got all pumped up, but he still just… please tell me he's gotten laid in the last eighty years."

Sam throws his head back and laughs.

"I'm pretty sure. I mean, he's not _completely_ hopeless. And he's a good-looking guy, so when you got that going for you, you almost don't have to do anything. They just kinda…"

Sam moves towards Bucky as if he's magnetized, his eyes big and wide. Bucky shoves him a little, laughs.

"Speaking of, what's going on with you and His Highness?" Sam asks.

"What?"

Sam leans back a little so that he can eye Bucky more thoroughly.

"I saw the look on his face when you walked into his office. And I saw the look on _your_ face. I know that look. I've seen that look. I've given that look."

Bucky rolls his eyes.

"You're an idiot."

"Hey, I get it-- the brother is fine. Educated, cultured, suave as fuck. Rich. Hell, I kinda want to sleep with him now."

Bucky hopes the look he shoots Sam is more fed up than defensive. Of all the people to notice anything, why did it have to be him? Bucky crosses his arms and stares into space. After a few seconds he realizes it's now too late to deny it.

"I just think it's funny you got a thing for the one dude on earth that kicked your ass. Just makes sense for… you."

He waves his hand around in Bucky's general direction.

"You're an idiot," Bucky says. "Maybe you just have a hard time recognizing when two people are actually friends."

"Hey-- I have friends! But most of my friends don't look at me like this--"

He claps a hand to the side of his face and pretends to stare in wonderment at someone. There's a momentary twinge of panic in Bucky's chest. That's not what it looks like to other people-- is it? No, Sam's just being an asshole. He's found a tender spot, so his natural instinct is to poke it until he gets punched in the face. Which is not an unthinkable consequence of this conversation.

"Yeah well, maybe they would if you weren't such an asshole. Besides, I've seen you eyeballing Dayo. And if I've noticed, you bet your ass T'Challa's noticed."

Sam shrugs.

"So? She's his assistant, not his wife. She also happens to be fine as hell. Don't try to change the subject."

It was worth a try. Bucky's finding it more and more difficult not to squirm. He's debating whether getting up and walking out would make it look like there _is_ something going on that he's trying to hide or whether he should stay and brazen it out. Thank fuck Steve isn't in the room.

"Will you just lay off?"

"Aw come on, man, I'm just yanking your chain. Are you-- are you _blushing_? Ohh shit. You kiss him yet? Huh? Did you?"

Sam nudges him with an elbow, and Bucky exerts every ounce of self-restraint so that he doesn't return the favor with his own metal elbow, exponentially harder. He buries his face in his hands instead.

"God, I hate you."

"Oh shit, there _is_ something going on! Damn! It's cool, I can keep a secret. Although, y'know… if I were to somehow get Dayo's number, that might help… keep me occupied."

Bucky rolls his eyes upward. He taps his fingers to his palm to open the _kimoyo's_ display, scrolls through his contacts, finds Dayo's number and texts it to Sam.

"I didn't give you that."

"And this conversation never happened. Got it, Man from UNCLE."

He strolls off with an absurdly gleeful smile on his face, already typing something on his phone.


	17. O, there has been much throwing about of brains

T'Challa sits at his desk, sifting through the thousands of messages from well-wishers, at home and abroad. Many of them are from heads of state, and with each one he opens he finds himself trying to assess how sincere it is. There is no shortage of people who stand to benefit if he dies.

There's a pop outside, and he jumps. He's been keyed up ever since he woke up at five am. His nerves jangle, and he's been trying to avoid seeing or speaking to anyone in the hope that no one will notice. His computer beeps, and Dayo informs him that the President of the United States would like to speak with him. T'Challa sighs-- careful not to let it be audible-- and tells her to patch him in.

The screen in front of him comes to life, and the President appears. T'Challa wonders how much he knows, and how much he's prepared to admit he knows.

"Your Highness."

"Mr President."

"First off, let me say how sorry I am to hear about the attempt on your life. If there's anything we can do to assist, please let us know."

President Cooper has never been very good at sounding sincere, and this occasion is no exception. His Democratic predecessor was a little more likeable, but most likely just as untrustworthy. It seems to be a prerequisite for election to public office in America. Nonetheless, T'Challa has always been scrupulously polite to them for the sake of diplomacy. He expresses the appropriate sentiment and waits for the real reason behind the call to come up.

"I won't waste your time by beating around the bush," the President says. "It's my understanding, King T'Challa, that you are harboring known fugitives wanted not only by the United States, but by the United Nations. Namely Steven Rogers, Sam Wilson, and James Barnes."

T'Challa presses his lips together. Not for the first time, he thinks about how ironic it is that the United States is accustomed to operating in much the same way that they do not want the Avengers to operate.

"No."

The President looks surprised, caught off guard by the boldness of T'Challa's lie.

"I'm sorry, I don't quite follow."

T'Challa throws his hands out.

"They are not here."

"King T'Challa, we have very credible intelligence that those three are living in Wakanda, even jetting off on missions! Rogers and Wilson have been spotted in several countries, and--"

"Is this 'credible intelligence' the same sort that gave the United States cause to invade Iraq?"

Cooper doesn't respond to that. T'Challa's _kimoyo_ , out of frame, lights up and projects a holographic display. 

 

> Bucky: any news?

The President tries for diplomacy again, or the closest he can manage.

"I'm sure you don't need me to tell you how volatile this situation is."

"And yet, here you are, telling me. I am fully aware of public opinion and the party line of your government. I am also very aware of the United States's history of interfering in the governing of foreign states."

"Your Highness, we have no intention of starting a conflict."

"No? Your country does seem to be especially proficient at it."

Cooper's face turns red. T'Challa thinks he can see a vein in the President's forehead standing out, although the quality of the signal is patchy. American communications technology has always lagged behind the rest of the world. T'Challa keeps his face impassive and waits for the President to regain the ability to speak.

"Your Highness, I am asking you as one head of state to another. Please consider the potential ramifications of defying the international community. Consider the well-being of Wakanda. We don't want this to become an international situation."

T'Challa tilts his head and narrows his gaze.

"… are you threatening me?"

It's a rhetorical question. T'Challa knows precisely what the United States is able and willing to do in the pursuit of its particular brand of justice. Invasion is only one technique. Assassination is another. He's withholding judgment until the Dora Milaje finish investigating, but he isn't naive enough to think it beyond the realm of possibility that someone in the US government is involved.

"Your Highness, Wakanda was one of the many nations who signed the Accords--"

"I am well aware, Mr President, of what the Accords say. I have told you the men you are looking for are not here. For you to continue to insist that they are is both insulting and very telling with regards to your intentions. We have only just begun to foster a relationship with the outside world. Please do not make us regret that decision. And let me be clear: any aggression towards Wakanda will not be taken lightly."

"Your Highness, we have no intention to violate Wakanda's sovereignty, under any circumstances. We value our fledgling relationship with your country--"

_And the vibranium trade_ , T'Challa thinks.

"I am sorry I could not be of more help," T'Challa says. "Please give my regards to the ambassador, and if you should come upon any information about the attempt on my life, I would welcome it."

He turns off the video call and sinks into his chair a little. Beneath the desk, his hands are shaking. He takes a deep breath and flicks his wrist to reply to Bucky. His fingers type in the air, and the _kimoyo_ translates it to text.

 

> T'Challa: sniper found dead
> 
> Bucky: i heard. any leads?
> 
> T'Challa: not yet. dm investigating

He pauses for a moment, then adds:

 

> stay out of it
> 
> Bucky: unlike some people we know, i know how to listen. can u at least give him an errand to run? hes driving me nuts

T'Challa smiles and sends a quick message back to ask them to his office. He isn't really in the mood to deal with Captain Rogers's obtrusive sense of duty, but at least the man does mean well. The same cannot be said for his country's government. But then, perhaps no one knows this better than Captain Rogers himself.

*

The inner door to T'Challa's office opens, and Bucky can't help the broad smile that spreads on his face at the sight of him. He sees Sam glance from him to T'Challa and back, then shake his head in puzzlement. T'Challa, if he notices, ignores it and steps up to shake Steve's hand, then Sam's. He takes Bucky's right hand and pulls him into a friendly but intimate embrace. Bucky can sense Steve and Sam watching with interest.

"How can we help?" Steve asks.

T'Challa shakes his head.

"The situation is under control. Once we have more information, the Dora Milaje and I will proceed--"

"But Your Highness, if Hydra's involved, there could be-"

Bucky's just about to suggest not pressing the issue when T'Challa rounds on Steve, raising his soft voice just enough to make his point.

"I am fully aware of the capabilities of Hydra, _Captain_ , and I will thank you to let me run my country as I see fit."

It's a struggle not to react. Bucky can sense Sam next to him biting his lip.

"I'm sorry," Steve says, downcast. "I didn't mean to--"

And just as quickly, the anger is gone. T'Challa claps Steve on the shoulder.

"I know, my friend. You deplore feeling helpless. But please, let me handle this. I will let you know if there is anything you can do to help."

Steve nods, still looking for all the world like a kid who's just gotten a stern talking-to from the principal. T'Challa's _kimoyo_ chirps, and he pauses to read a message. He frowns.

"Update?" Bucky asks.

"Mm. The Dora Milaje think the mercenaries involved are working out of a town near the Kenyan border. It's notorious as a haven for malcontents."

He turns to Steve.

"Captain, would you be interested in performing some recon? Nothing too intensive, but you would need to wear civilian clothes."

Bucky gives T'Challa a look that he hopes says all the things he's struggling not to say out loud.

"But what if someone snaps a photo of this idiot walking around, sends it to the US?" Sam asks. "Then they'll have proof we're here."

"He's got a point--" Steve starts to say.

"They already know," T'Challa says.

"Fuck," Bucky whispers.

T'Challa looks around at them.

"I spoke to the President just a few minutes ago. He demanded I give you all up." Silence. "I told him to go fuck himself."

They laugh, hesitantly.

"Please tell me you used those exact words," Bucky says.

"No, I managed to express it far more politely, but the sentiment remains the same. I'll get you some transport."

"Wait, why don't you send me?" Sam asks. "A big white dude in Wakanda isn't exactly low-profile."

Bucky elbows him and sends him a text under the pretext of looking something up in the _kimoyo_ in his arm.

> thats the point. keeps him out of our hair for a few hours.

"Oh… oh I see. Yeah, he's… better at that sort of thing than I am."

Steve gives the two of them a puzzled look, but somehow Bucky manages to keep his face impassive. T'Challa sets out Steve's mission parameters, and he makes a hasty exit. If he has any idea that this is busywork, well… if he knew, they'd all know. Sam turns to Bucky after Steve's gone.

"Did you seriously just send him on a wild goose chase?" he asks.

He sounds a little annoyed.

"No," T'Challa says. "There are several locations we need to check up on. I've sent Captain Rogers to one of the less likely ones, but there is a possibility he'll come back with some information."

"And Steve also gets to feel useful," Bucky adds. "Because you know what a pain in the ass he'd be if he didn't have something to do."

He knows Sam can't really argue with that. With Steve off on his adventure and T'Challa overseeing the investigation, Sam and Bucky are at a bit of a loss. Bucky seems to have earned himself a little currency with Sam, although he restrains himself from asking if he's got himself a date already. There is the possibility that Dayo turned him down, or is spoken for, and if that's the case, Bucky's pretty sure that Sam wouldn't want him to know.

He thinks about Sam's crack back in the museum, about supervillain jail. He did that for Steve, not for Bucky. God knows what happened to him in there. He hasn't talked about it, but he seems a little more somber since he came back. Maybe just it's Bucky's imagination. He knows precisely what kind of atrocities their government is capable of when given enough money and secrecy and power. Torture is the least they'd do. If that's what they did, Sam isn't talking.

"Did you have any doubt that he'd come back for you?" Bucky asks.

"What now?"

"The Raft.

The smile drops off Sam's face like rain from a cloud.

"Oh. Not really."

He doesn't sound as sure as Bucky would like.

"Good. I told him I'd goddamn well do it myself if he didn't, one arm or not."

Sam leans back a little, smiles, and looks at him as if he's not quite sure whether to believe it.

"Not that I doubted for a minute that he would. This is the asshole who went thirty miles behind enemy lines to rescue me in 1943. He took down three helicarriers and a government intelligence organization. If Steve is anything, he's loyal to his friends."

Sam nods. He bites at his lip, looks like he's going to say something. Maybe _yeah we know just how loyal he is to you, which is why we're all here instead of at home_. Bucky wouldn't be able to blame him. He readies himself for it.

"Can I ask you something?" Sam asks.

"I guess."

"Didn't you know what would happen if you tried to destroy Tony's chest repulsor? I mean, I know it's kinda key to the whole Iron Man suit, but…"

Bucky turns and looks at him. He says nothing. He's not sure what there is to say. Sam's next question is quieter.

"Did it hurt?"

He doesn't reply. Doesn't need to. Sam looks at him for a second, then looks away. For a few minutes they're both silent.

"You know, he hasn't been the same since you went under," Sam says, and Bucky blinks. "It's like… I met a _version_ of Steve a couple of years ago. Didn't know it at the time. But when you're around, he's not a _version_ of himself-- he's himself, you know? It's like a part of him just switches off when you're not around. It's pretty creepy, actually."

"Is he pissed off that I didn't tell him?"

Sam shrugs.

"Probably. Or y'know, just _Disappointed_. Doesn't matter, though. It was your choice-- to go under, _and_ to get better. Sometimes Steve needs a little reminder that we don't always need his leadership."

"Asshole ought to go to therapy himself," Bucky grouses.

Sam looks at him as if he's seeing him for the first time.

"What did you say?"

"I said he ought to get some fucking therapy. Kid's got more issues than TIME Magazine."

"Okay, hang on, I need to record this."

"Why?"

"Because for the first time in probably ever, Bucky Barnes agrees with me about something. I'mma put this shit on Instagram."


	18. This is the imposthume of much wealth and peace

When Steve comes back, a few hours later, after dark, looking tired and disappointed, Bucky can't help a little flinch of guilt.

"Any luck?"

Steve nods.

"Turns out, if you stick out in Wakanda, it helps people remember anyone else who stuck out. I wandered around for a while just keeping an eye out for anyone who looked out of place. After a couple of hours I managed to find somebody who spoke English. Most Wakandans, uh, don't."

"Don't confuse _don't_ with _won't_ ," Bucky says, and he and T'Challa share an amused look.

Steve gives them the latest in a series of mildly confused and possibly insulted expressions Bucky's seen on his face since he got back.

"Anyway, this kid told me that he'd seen some heavily armed men passing through a few days before in a small convoy. Then another a few days later. Maybe fifty total. They were on their way to… N'Jadaka, I think he said?"

T'Challa nods.

"Of course they were."

"That's where that asshole Killmonger is holed up," Bucky says. "I knew he was involved with this bullshit."

He fires up his _kimoyo_ and starts searching for all the information he can find. He has limited access to the government servers, enough to stay informed but not enough to, say, plan a mission.

"Anyway, the kid wasn't sure how serious they were-- they could be hardened black ops guys, or they could just be a bunch of jerks playing soldier. So I uh… took a side trip to have a look."

He looks a little guilty, and Bucky thinks, not for the first time, how much Steve reminds him of a labrador retriever. Big, dumb, and impossible to stay mad at no matter how stupid he's been.

"And?"

"Well, I've got good news and bad news. The good news is, I did some recon, and it looks like there are less than a hundred of these creeps. I'm guessing they were meant to be the first wave and other troops might be standing by in Kenya or Niganda."

"That would be sensible," T'Challa says. "They probably crossed the border in smaller groups to avoid scrutiny."

"What's the bad news?" Bucky asks.

"They're not Hydra. At least, they're not _all_ Hydra. They're mercenaries, some of them private sector contractors-- Castleman Security, among others. One of them was part of Batroc's crew aboard the Lemurian Star."

"How's that the bad news?"

Steve takes a deep breath.

"I'm pretty sure they're in the pay of the United States government."

"How can you be sure?" T'Challa asks.

"I'm not. It's just a feeling I have, watching them move. We'd have to get our hands on their financial records, trace their money. We'll need to get into their complex."

"Not a problem," T'Challa says. "The Midnight Angels and I will handle it."

"Who are the Midnight Angels?" Steve asks.

"The commando wing of T'Challa's Dora Milaje," Bucky says. "Apparently they make Special Forces look like amateurs."

Steve looks impressed. Bucky thinks for a moment, looking over the model and zooming out to get a look at the neighbourhood the complex is in. Mostly warehouses, so there shouldn't be too much danger of collateral damage.

"I think you should stay here, Your Highness," Steve says. "Sam and me plus the Angels should be able to take on just about anyone. It's safer--"

"I appreciate your concern for my safety, Captain Rogers, but I do not take orders from you."

Behind Steve, Bucky pulls an exaggerated shocked face at Sam, who makes his own _oh shit_ face right back. Somehow they both manage not to snicker. Steve clears his throat and turns red.

"Of course. Your Highness."

"The Midnight Angels and I will infiltrate the complex, but it would be helpful to have a diversion. If they are focusing on a fight elsewhere, they may leave more vulnerable areas undefended."

T'Challa looks at Steve, who smiles.

"I can be a diversion. What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that if it looks like you and your friends are acting alone, it makes it easier for us. They won't expect a frontal assault and a stealth mission at the same time. If you and Sam can distract them and buy some time, we shouldn't have any problem breaking in."

"So… you want me to just attack them?"

Bucky can tell what Steve's thinking-- it sounds too simple. But T'Challa's right, if the mercenaries think Cap is the main force, they'll let down their guard elsewhere while they put all their resources on him. Not that it'll do them any good.

"And what about me?" Bucky says.

He's prepared to argue if anyone expects him to stay behind, especially given the exchange he just witnessed. Hell, he'll follow them covertly if he has to. They have to know he's capable of it, and more than willing.

"You were a skilled sniper in your time with the Howling Commandos," T'Challa says.

"What do you mean, _was_?"

T'Challa smiles. Bucky would be annoyed if that smile didn't turn his insides upside down.

"I need you high up, to cover Sam and Steve. There is an office building nearby, you can station yourselves on the roof. I'll provide you with a high-powered rifle and night-vision scope.

"And what if things go to shit?"

He's well aware of the combined force they represent, but he still doesn't like the idea of being at the top of a building while his closest friends on earth do all the dirty work. T'Challa raises his eyebrows.

"If you have such a burning need to punch someone, remember that they will likely have the area monitored, possibly guarded. There may be multiple hostiles you'll have to take on by yourself."

The way he says it, as if he's trying to make Bucky feel better, makes him scowl.

"There had better be."

"And Bucky…" T'Challa adds. "Non-lethal force if possible. We want to take as many of them alive as we can, for interrogation."

"I never get to have any fun," Bucky says.

As soon as it's out of his mouth he realises how insincere it is, and it takes him a moment to process that feeling. He'd volunteered for the mission without really thinking about it, because these goons tried to kill T'Challa. The more he thinks about it, the more the thought of getting behind a gun makes him feel like he's been kicked in the stomach.

They don't have much time to prepare. A quick dinner, and then it's time to suit up. Steve's suit is matte black, a darker black than Bucky's ever seen in his life. The star on his chest is just discernable, slightly lighter than the field it's on but still very dark.

"Wow, that new?"

Steve looks down.

"Oh, yeah. Didn't feel right to keep wearing the red, white, and blue."

"Black is a better color anyway," T'Challa says with a smile. "Made of a material that reflects no light. The blackest black there is."

"Made in Wakanda?" Bucky asks.

"Of course."

"So what're you gonna call yourself then, if you're not Mr Red White and Blue?"

Steve shrugs.

"Dunno. As long as Ross is after us, I can't exactly go home, but I've got no other place to call home. Don't get me wrong, T'Challa, I appreciate you giving us safe harbour, but Wakanda isn't our home."

"I understand completely," T'Challa says. "I honestly cannot imagine what I would do if I could not return to Wakanda."

"Wander the world?" Bucky suggests. "Be a nomad?"

Steve raises his eyebrows as if to say it's not the worst idea he's ever heard. Sam shakes his head.

"Anyway, what've we got?"

"Nothing quite so formal as Captain Rogers's. Tactical clothing, body armor. Although I'm sure we could work something up for you, if you feel strongly about it."

T'Challa smiles, and his eyes gleam a little like they do when he's teasing.

"Nah," Bucky says. "Some of us can cope with dressing like normal people."

"Ain't nothing about you normal," Sam says.

The fourteen of them gear up. Bucky puts on black tactical pants and a long-sleeved shirt, leather jacket. It's a little tight over his left arm. The leather creaks as he rolls his shoulder.

"What, not rocking the single sleeve look today, Six Million Dollar Man?" Sam asks.

"Oh fuck off, Big Bird."

Sam stares at him for a second with his mouth open. Someone snorts-- he thinks it might have been T'Challa. Bucky glances at Steve, who's trying-- and failing-- not to giggle himself, and lets a smile cross his face as he realises he's said something funny. He catches Sam's eye and gets an amused nod of acknowledgment. The topography between them has changed again.

Then they're all in the jet-- T'Challa, Sam, Bucky, and twelve of the most badass women Bucky has ever seen, dressed for stealth and armed to the teeth, although he has a feeling they don't really need the weapons. Nakia is with them.

< _Your friend with the wings is cute_ > she says.

< _He's also idiot_ > Bucky replies. < _And he snores_ >

His pronunciation is still abysmal, as Nakia never gets tired of telling him, but at least she can understand him now. Steve and Sam stare at him for a minute.

"… what?"

" _You_ speak Wakandan," Sam says, as if he's not sure what he just heard and also isn't sure if he approves of it.

"A little."

He turns to Nakia and says < _See? Idiot._ > She laughs, and Sam eyes them both with suspicion.

"If it is any consolation," Nakia says. "He speaks it very poorly."

Bucky rolls his eyes upward as if to ask what he's done to deserve this. Sam grins.

"We're almost there," Steve says.

He straps the shield on and checks his comm earpiece.

"Prepare for landing. Channel 5 secure."

The jet hovers above an open field and then sets down, flattening the grass and shaking the trees. Parked nearby is a dilapidated old van that at some point in its life was probably red. It hardly looks big enough to hold all three of them, much less their equipment, but they load it up nonetheless and squeeze inside.

"I'm not actually sure this is better than me carrying your asses in," Sam says. "You're both heavy, but I think I'd prefer open air to… this."

"Better than that goddamn Beetle," Bucky mutters.

Sam kicks Bucky's knee, and Bucky kicks him back.

"This is the plan, so this is what we do," Steve says, ever the soldier. "T'Challa knows what he's doing."

"I guess it beats you jumping out of planes like a dumbass."

Steve turns his head to look at Sam, quizzical and maybe just a little suspicious.

"Natasha told me," Sam says, grinning. "In fact, she said Bucky here might like to know."

"Might like to know what?"

There's a pause. Steve quickly looks away and absorbs himself in some unnecessary inspection of his shield. Sam looks back and forth between them for a moment.

"Oh, so he didn't tell you."

"Tell me _what_?"

"About the Lemurian Star. About him jumping out a damn plane with no parachute in the middle of the ocean."

Bucky turns to him.

"You did _what_? Jesus, Steve, even the Winter Soldier wouldn't fuckin' do that!"

Steve sighs.

"It wasn't-- it wasn't like that… Sam's making it sound--"

"Like you jumped out of a plane with no parachute?" Sam butts in. "Cause that's what you did. Man, wait 'til you hear about what he pulled in Stockholm."

"Sam!"

Bucky fixes Steve with a gimlet glare.

"You get yourself killed, and I'll find a way to bring you back so I can kill you again myself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes that was a Nomad reference.
> 
> [clearly I'm not](http://fuckyeahyourbucky.tumblr.com/post/145872990501/luckyraeve-civil-war-au-where-everything-is-the) [the only one who digs](https://happinessisntapotato.tumblr.com/post/145221323720/sodam-art-i-almost-screamed-when-i-saw%20) [the idea of](http://rowdy-redhead.tumblr.com/post/144099375822) [Steve in black](http://sergeantasset.tumblr.com/post/145919443159)
> 
> Castleman Security is a dodgy private contractor in Leverage.


	19. The readiness is all

It's just after two in the morning, which T'Challa determined was the ideal time to strike. They get out of the van and unload their equipment-- the unpainted shield, Sam's wing pack, and a Barrett M82. Bucky shoulders it and tries not to think too hard about everyone he's killed with one of them. Thirty-four people in total. No-- 33. Fury lived. That at least makes him feel a little better. Steve slaps the side of the van to send the driver off.

The three of them break into an office building down the street from the building the mercenaries are operating out of, through a not terribly secure door next to the loading dock. They creep down the hall, Steve in front with the shield and Bucky behind him, covering all the angles with the rifle. Sam is rearguard. There's a single security guard at a desk facing a bank of monitors, although he actually seems to be watching something on his phone. He turns around just in time to see that he's surrounded. His hand moves towards the gun at his hip, but Bucky's metal hand is faster.

"Relax, we're not gonna hurt you," Bucky says, emptying the gun and tossing the bullets aside.

He tries to say "we won't hurt you" in broken Wakandan, but his gift for languages doesn't extend as far as that. The guard frowns at him in puzzlement. Bucky hopes he hasn't said something completely absurd, like _tax credits for kangaroos_. Sam opts for the direct route and points down the hall.

"Out."

The front doors are locked, so the only way out is through the back entrance. The guy scrambles out of his chair and down the hall. They scan the monitors for any sign of other people. Satisfied the building is empty, they go up the back stairwell. There's a padlock on the access door to the roof. Steve breaks it with the edge of his shield, and they exit onto the roof, once again in formation.

"Cleared," Bucky says. "In position."

"Acknowledged," T'Challa says. "Black Cat going dark."

Bucky's heart climbs into his throat and perches there. He peers through the rifle scope. A half mile away, the U-shaped front of the complex is mostly dark.

"Two pairs of guards, one pair at each arm," he speaks. "I don't think they're Wakandan. Blue sedan down the street, two more in street clothes. Dark red van on the next block has a driver, probably a jump squad inside. Awful lot of people around for a warehouse at 2am."

He turns to Sam, who's strapping on some kind of harness on top of his wings. Bucky grins.

"You look like you're about to carry around the world's largest baby."

Sam snorts.

"Well, you're not far off."

"If you two are done being comedians, let's do this," Steve says.

"Make sure to burp him," Bucky stage-whispers. "He gets fussy."

Steve sighs.

"I think I liked it better when you two didn't talk to each other."

Sam grins and goes about hooking the harness to a matching piece of hardware on the back of Steve's suit. Steve picks up the shield and holds it in front of him, the edges gleaming in the darkness. Bucky sets up the rifle and hunkers down. Sam looks at his watch.

"Ninety seconds."

Bucky spies movement, and he looks through the scope. They've been spotted.

"Jump team's out of the van," he says. "They're-- oh, they're headed this way. And I was worried I'd get bored."

"Be careful, Buck."

"Says the guy who jumps from airplanes with no fuckin' parachute."

Steve casts a betrayed look over his shoulder at Sam, who somehow manages to look preoccupied and not at all aware of this conversation. On their mark, Sam takes off from the rooftop, flying low with the extra 250+ pounds of supersoldier attached to him. Steve holds the shield up to deflect the isolated shots that pop off from ground level, with Bucky providing cover fire. As they swoop closer, the harness disconnects, and Bucky watches Steve curl up behind his shield and divebomb the knot of armed men gathered at the south arm of the complex.

Sam pulls up, kicks one of them hard in the chest with both feet and knocks him backwards into another guy. He spins, wings closing around him to deflect gunshots. Up again in an arc, drawing fire. He lands on the roof of the complex, where another half dozen mercs have emerged from an access door. Bucky picks off the one closest to Sam, more for kicks than because he thinks Sam needs the help.

On the street below, the jump team makes for the office building Bucky's positioned on top of. He takes out two of them and then refocuses on covering Sam and Steve. One of the mercenaries has managed to get Steve in a headlock. Bucky can't get a clear shot, not without the risk of hitting Steve, and he's shot at Steve enough for one lifetime. Instead he checks on Sam, who's making short work of the two remaining men on the roof. Bucky looks back just as Steve _runs up a fucking wall_ , jumps off, and throws the guy twenty feet away into a crash barrier. Bucky grins. He's seen Steve fight plenty of times before, but there's an acrobatic fluidity that Bucky doesn't remember from the war. Steve's been taking pointers from Black Widow.

Faint thunder of footsteps, and Bucky rolls around to fire at the first two creeps to bust through the access door. Two shots each, center of mass, and they drop. They might be wearing body armor, but those bullets still hurt like a son of a bitch. He holds up his left arm to deflect a shot, returns fire, and drops the guy with a bullet to the knee. One takes cover in the doorway of the access door and fires at Bucky over the bodies of his pals while another one charges him. Bucky drops his shoulder into the guy's stomach and catapults him off the roof, stands up and shoots the other one in the shoulder and chest.

Once he's sure no one else is coming up, he gets back down on one knee and peers through the scope again. Sam's launched himself off the roof towards Steve, leaving behind a pile of men in dark tac gear. Bucky scans for any sign that any of them are getting up again. Two floors below, someone opens a darkened window. A gun barrel appears, and Bucky fires a shot aimed at where the shooter's center of mass would be. The gun barrel tips up towards the sky and stays there.

"How many of these assholes are there?" he mutters.

*

T'Challa hears the approach and the resultant gunfire. From his perch atop a stone arch, he watches the security detail at the loading dock. They slouch against walls, guns slung casually at their sides, and that's good, very good. Boredom is the enemy of the security guard but the friend of anyone who wants to get past him. The group stiffens. They bring hands up to their earpieces, and then the majority of them make haste for the front of the building, where T'Challa can only assume that Steve and Sam are laying waste to their comrades. Three remain at the loading dock, and T'Challa wonders momentarily why he thought this would be any kind of challenge.

The Dora Milaje are positioned tactically up and down the alley, wearing loose urban camouflage clothing over their suits. Even T'Challa has difficulty spotting them in their carbon fiber cloaking, which means the guards should have no idea they're here. Faintly, he hears the percussion of hand to hand combat, and much louder, the report of rifles and pistols echoing over the top of the building.

He jumps down, feather light, silent, crouched to absorb the impact, and then darts behind a car. He shrugs off his own cloaking garment and waits. One of the guards looks up in just enough time to catch Nakia's feet right in the middle of his chest as she leaps down from an adjacent rooftop. One guard down, she sweeps her leg out to trip another while Nareema simply creeps up behind the third and puts him in a chokehold until he goes limp. They empty the weapons and disassemble them, discard their camouflage in favour of the stock Midnight Angel uniform-- black, as always, closely fitted and laced with vibranium to stop bullets.

T'Challa makes his way to the loading dock, where Nareema is at work on the door while Okoye binds the guards' hands and feet. Nareema scoffs.

< _Magnetic card swiping. Primitive._ >

< _Now is not the time for arrogance_ > T'Challa says. < _We must remain vigilant. We have no way of knowing what sort of weapons or defenses they have._ >

< _Yes, beloved._ >

Using a key card taken from one of the unconscious guards, Nareema opens the door and scouts inside for any sign of traps or alarms. T'Challa is directly behind her, and only because she refused to let him enter first. The corridor is dark, institutional-looking, the lights overhead switched off for the night. Nareema signs for him to stop and inspects further on for motion detectors. Nothing. There are cameras, but no guarantee that they are monitored or aren't dummies. T'Challa can't help a burgeoning squeeze of unease. It can't be this simple.

As expected, most of the men are out in front, and the Dora Milaje have no trouble dispatching the isolated guards they come across. The group splits up to search the building, T'Challa, Okoye, and Nareema down to the basement and the others each taking a floor above. Nareema signs to him.

< _I see what you mean, beloved. This is too easy._ >

He nods. Either these fools are incompetent, or they're trying to lure them into a false sense of security. One of those assumptions could get someone killed.

Down a darkened stairwell, they make their way through corridors choked with cables and pipes. They come to a server room, where the stolen key card will not open the door. Nareema sets an overloader on top of the card swipe. Sparks hiss, and there is a snapping sound as the magnetic panel shorts out. T'Challa nods to Nareema, and she slips inside. He and Okoye press onward.

The security center is as ill-guarded as the loading dock. They quickly dispatch and disarm the two guards outside the door and restrain them with plastic zip ties. A team of Dora Milaje are on their way to the building, tasked with collecting and interrogating the prisoners. Okoye uses the overloader again, and they pause, aware that destroying the lock has most likely alerted anyone inside to their presence. Okoye opens one of the doors, staying well back, and someone inside starts firing wildly. She looks over at T'Challa and rolls her eyes.

The hinges are, stupidly, on the outside of the doors, and it takes only a moment for the two of them to remove the pins and yank the doors out of the frame. The gunfire stops, and T'Challa hears someone inside approaching the doorway. He waits, coiled, until he can tell the guard is just inside the door frame. The muzzle of his semiautomatic rifle peeks out, and T'Challa grabs it, twists, and throws the man onto the floor.

"Where is he?" he demands.

The guard throws his hands up.

"Who? I don't know what you-- please don't kill me."

Inside the room, someone else speaks in a low voice on the intercomm.

"The Black Panther is here, I repeat, he is HERE, I need all units to the basement!"

T'Challa steps into the room, where the man at the console whirls around and points a pistol at him. He fires once, twice, probably more out of reflex than anything else. The bullets hit T'Challa's suit and drop to the floor. He walks forward.

"If you like," T'Challa says. "We can wait for your friends to arrive."

He unsheathes his claws and stands, ready. A few moments later the sound of booted footsteps echoes into the room, and Okoye rolls through the door just ahead of gunshots. T'Challa counts-- four men, five, six, eight-- running down the corridor. As soon as they clear the doorway they fire, predictably catching their comrade several times. He slides to the floor a bloody mess.

At the back of the clump of soldiers, Okoye kicks one about the head and relieves him of his weapon. She slams the butt of it into another's face and breaks his nose. T'Challa sinks to the floor with the guard, who could survive his injuries if they get him fast medical attention.

"Where is he!" he asks.

The guard manages a wet chuckle, and T'Challa notices too late the movement of his tongue to pull off a tooth cap. He gurgles "Hail Hydra" and then convulses. T'Challa shoves his body away, disgusted. While Okoye takes care of the soldiers, he moves to the console to look over the camera feeds on the screen. Steve and Sam are fighting a shrinking number of mercenaries on one feed. On another, several more mercenaries are beating a quick retreat. T'Challa turns his earpiece back on.

"This is Black Cat-- rats abandoning ship."

"So I see, beloved," one of the Dora Milaje says. "We will collect them."

"Be advised, some are Hydra, but not all. Watch their mouths for tooth caps. We want them alive."

"What's your status, Black Cat?"

Bucky's voice comes through the comms, brittle.

"Site secured," T'Challa says. "We are coming up."

He turns around. Okoye is already gone, having left a neat row of soldiers tied hand and foot. he turns back to the camera feeds and searches for any sign of Killmonger or any of his allies. There's nothing. He's not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

"Nareema, have you finished with the servers?" he asks.

"Yes, beloved. The data has been transmitted back to base."

"Reinforcements are en route. Please join the others at ground level."

*

Bucky doesn't really get much time to think about how his voice sounded. A fresh squad of reinforcements has showed up from somewhere, this group with an M134 mounted on a Jeep. One of them climbs up onto the hood to aim the gun at Steve and Sam. Bucky picks him off, then aims a shot at just the right place so that the gun explodes back into the face of the next guy who tries to get up there. Simpletons.

A couple of Dora Milaje burst through the front doors of the complex and take on the newcomers. Steve throws his shield at someone who's firing wildly at Sam as he arcs upward. The shield bounces off the guy's helmet, ricochets off a wall, and Okoye leaps up to grab it out of the air. She lands, whacks another mercenary with the edge and shatters his visor, and then throws it back to Steve, who's stopped in the middle of his own skirmish, surprised. He catches it and tips her a nod. Someone taking cover behind a ruined car fires an automatic at him. Steve hunkers down behind the shield, bullets dropping at his feet as the vibranium stops them. Bucky drops the offending idiot with a quick couple of shots.

"I had that," Steve says in his ear.

"I'm bored. Sue me."

He picks off a merc making a beeline for Nakia. She scowls in his direction and finds another target, executes a roundhouse kick to his head. He'll catch hell for that later.

"Any more hostiles?" T'Challa asks.

"None that I can see," Bucky says. "Can I come and play now?"

He rappels down the side of the building, the quickest way to ground level, and moves towards the complex. A block away, he catches someone popping up in his peripheral vision, raises his left arm to deflect the bullets. He throws himself behind a van and peers around the back, draws his pistol and returns fire. He's a much better shot than the other guy. Bucky nails him right in the center of his helmet, and he drops.

" _Asshole_ ," Bucky hisses.

By the time he gets to the front of the complex the others have made short work of the remaining mercenaries. A crew of Dora Milaje are pulling up with a transport truck. Bucky helps them load the prisoners. He sticks his metal fingers in the mouth of each one as he passes him along, checking for Hydra cyanide caps. The fully loaded truck trundles off, leaving the corpses.

"Fourteen," T'Challa says. "More than I would have liked."

Bucky shrugs.

"I tried to play nice. I doubt any of them know much, if their competence is any indication."

Nareema scoffs.

"Our training exercises are more challenging."

She eyes Bucky, and he's not entirely sure what her mindset is until she speaks.

" _You_ look like you would be a capable opponent."

High praise, coming from one of the Midnight Angels. Bucky grins.


	20. I'll have grounds more relative than this*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

It's nearly 4am by the time they return to the palace to debrief in T'Challa's office. Fourteen casualties, 108 prisoners, and several terabytes of data that Wakandan tech geniuses will be sifting through all night. T'Challa instructs them all very firmly to go to bed, although Bucky's reasonably sure he's mostly talking to Okoye, who looks like she's ready to fight another hundred goons. She huffs a little and follows the others to the barracks.

Bucky waits for Sam and Steve to turn their attention elsewhere and then shoots T'Challa a look. T'Challa holds his gaze for a second, and then they both look away. Sam and Steve head for their rooms, and Bucky's reasonably sure that Sam tips them a wink as he leads Steve out of the office.

"Are you planning to follow your own orders, or is someone going to have to drag you to bed?" Bucky asks.

T'Challa cocks his head and looks at him for a long moment.

"I have a few more things to do."

"And they couldn't possibly wait until morning?" Bucky asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Are you trying to seduce me?"

"That depends-- is it working?"

T'Challa laughs. He doesn't say anything for a few moments, which is long enough for Bucky to decide the answer is no and to conceal his disappointment with a yawn. He leaves T'Challa in his office and ambles back to the bungalow, in no particular hurry to greet his empty bed. He drops the tactical clothing in a trail from front door to bathroom door and takes a long, hot shower. When he gets out, T'Challa is in his bed, fast asleep. How the fuck does he do that? Shaking his head, Bucky climbs in and spoons up behind him.

The next morning Bucky wakes up surprisingly early, and he's even more surprised to find T'Challa still in bed with him. It's a good reason not to get up, and an even better reason to be awake. He presses a kiss to the nape of T'Challa's neck and flattens himself against T'Challa's back.

"Forty-seven seconds," T'Challa murmurs.

"Hmm?"

"That's how long you kept your hands to yourself after you woke up."

Bucky grins against his skin.

"If His Highness is offended, I can always stop."

"I didn't say that, did I?"

"Hmm."

Bucky kisses T'Challa's shoulder again, lingering this time, and wetter. The change in T'Challa's breathing is slight, but perceptible. Bucky does it again and gently closes his teeth on the cord of muscle. T'Challa's breath catches. Bucky traces a metal fingertip down T'Challa's side and marvels a little at the refinement of sensation the new arm gives him. The old one could detect pressure, force, temperature, that sort of thing, but with this one he can feel the texture of skin and the way that it changes as his fingertip travels over muscle and bone. He closes his metal fingers around T'Challa's hipbone and noses at the back of his neck. Breathes out a measured breath over the warmth of his skin.

T'Challa's stomach sucks in as Bucky's bionic hand closes around his hardening cock, and Bucky drinks in the sensory input. The smooth soft heat of skin, the wetness at the tip that he rubs in circles with his thumb. He presses lazy kisses to T'Challa's shoulder and neck while he does it.

"God," he whispers. "Bet you taste so good…"

T'Challa swallows. Bucky finds his response to dirty talk utterly charming, his hesitation and embarrassment, and most of all how much he seems to like it. His hips move with the gentle stroke of Bucky's hand.

"Why don't you find out?" T'Challa murmurs, and Bucky grins.

He rolls T'Challa onto his back and climbs on top of him, kisses him deep and wet and dirty. T'Challa's fingers knead a little in his hips and ass, and Bucky hardens the rest of the way. He rolls his hips to get a little friction against his cock and drags his lips down T'Challa's skin, neck, chest, stomach, as he inches downward. He looks up at T'Challa. He's watching Bucky with intense interest, lip caught between his teeth. Suddenly Bucky wants to make him come so hard he forgets his own name.

He closes his mouth around T'Challa's cock and gives it little teasing licks with his tongue. T'Challa's hand closes in his hair and pulls just enough to make Bucky groan. He drags the tip of his middle finger up T'Challa's perineum. He looks up to gauge whether it's okay. T'Challa's watching him, soft but intent.

"Do what you like. I trust you."

That sends a little thrill down Bucky's spine, maybe more so than any of the touches. He makes eye contact and holds it as he slowly sucks in his own middle finger to wet it. T'Challa's eyes are large and dark, watching. Bucky draws his fingertip down tender skin to T'Challa's ass, massages, and then slowly works it into him. T'Challa's head tips back, lips parted. He can feel the way T'Challa's body stiffens and then relaxes as he strokes inside. He shifts up to get T'challa's cock back in his mouth as he pushes his finger in deeper. T'Challa's long eyelashes flutter.

Bucky rests his metal hand on T'Challa's hip and sucks him off with what he knows is excruciating gentleness. His finger toys a little, circles, and when he presses it in a little deeper he swallows T'Challa down as far as he can. He's rewarded with a quiet moan. He strokes a little harder, and the moan gets louder. T'Challa's fingers tighten their grip in his hair. Bucky hums a little. He knows from his own experience that the vibration is traveling up T'Challa's dick towards his spine.

He crooks his finger in time with a deep swallow, and T'Challa's composure breaks a little. He lets out a little gasp. Bucky does it again. T'Challa's back arches, and Nakia's given Bucky a thorough enough grounding in Wakandan that he can make out _god, Bucky please_ as the taste of T'Challa floods his mouth. Bucky swallows, eyes closed. He licks his lips and then looks up as he drags the back of his hand across his mouth. T'Challa is watching him helplessly, wrecked. Bucky's finger is still inside him, and he crooks it again just to watch T'Challa's neck extend.

Bucky pulls himself up to lie on top of him. He's still hard but not terribly concerned about it. Their mouths meet for a kiss. It gains a surprising amount of heat, and then T'Challa rolls over on top of him to get as deep into the kiss as he can.

*

Something about the way that Bucky goes lax beneath him drives T'Challa mad. Perhaps it's the contrast with the insistent press of his erection, or perhaps it's just the way he has of going from assertive to gently pliant. His fingertips dig into the muscle of T'Challa's ass and urge him on. He nips and bites at Bucky's neck, careful not to leave marks, although he can't resist the temptation to leave a livid bruise on Bucky's stomach where no one will see. His hand moves down to close around Bucky's cock and draws a little moan out of him.

"Tell me what you want," T'Challa murmurs.

"Mm. Do what you like. I trust you."

He lifts his head to look at Bucky. There's a playful smile on his face, but above it his grey eyes are hot and vulnerable. T'Challa kisses him again, slow, and strokes Bucky just enough to keep him in motion, arching and flexing, beautiful underneath him. It isn't long before T'Challa himself is hard again. Bucky rolls his hips against it, and suddenly T'Challa desperately needs to be inside him.

He draws back and rolls Bucky onto his stomach, nips at the join of shoulder and neck. Beneath him, he can feel Bucky's hips shifting to get friction against the mattress. He must be aching with it now. T'Challa rocks his hips against Bucky's ass so that he can feel the hardening of his cock. Bucky arches his back to push his ass against it.

Words come to T'Challa's lips, obscene things, rough things, and he holds them in. He retrieves the lubricant from beneath the pillow where they'd left it the night before and slicks his fingers. Normally he would take his time. He's usually careful with Bucky in a way that sometimes drives the man to frustration. Now, however, his stomach clenches as he presses two wet fingers deep into Bucky's body without prelude.

Bucky moans. He pushes back onto T'Challa's fingers, eager, fucking himself on them until he's pulled his knees up underneath him with his head pillowed on his forearms. T'Challa is up on his knees behind him, startled and urged on by Bucky's enthusiasm. He reaches over to snatch up a condom from the bedside table and rolls it on. The thick blunt head of his cock pushes against the heat of Bucky's body, and Bucky moans again. T'challa hesitates. He doesn't want to hurt Bucky.

The touch of T'Challa's dick makes Bucky push back against it, keen, and T'Challa's eyelashes flutter as it penetrates just a fraction of an inch. Bucky looks over his shoulder at him. There's no trace of hesitation on his face, only naked need. T'Challa bites his lip and takes Bucky's hips in his hands. He listens to Bucky moan as T'Challa slides into him in one smooth motion. Bucky clutches at the bedsheets. His back arches, urging T'Challa in deeper. The heat and tightness are overwhelming, and he's suddenly glad that Bucky has already made him come.

Beneath him, Bucky is broadly muscled, beautiful, constantly in motion as if to find the best rhythm, the best place. T'Challa can see just enough of his profile to drink in the way his brows contract, the way he bites his lip as T'Challa fucks him. A little harder now, and Bucky moans again as T'Challa touches him, strokes him while he intensifies the pace and lets his hips slap against him just a little.

Bucky's moans get louder with every impact. His head drops onto his forearms. T'Challa pulls him back harder with one hand while the other strokes him relentlessly. He takes a deep breath to hold himself back. In his hand, Bucky's cock throbs and spills, and Bucky makes a noise that digs a hook into T'Challa's belly and drags his hips hard into Bucky's ass.

"Yes…" Bucky groans. "God, baby, goddamn, do me…"

T'Challa's face would warm with embarrassment if he weren't already sweating and flushed. He holds Bucky's hips in both hands now, thrusting more roughly, embarrassed by his own need and the way he's using Bucky's body. Beneath him Bucky is undone, murmuring profanities and T'Challa's name in more than one language and offering himself up. The sound of it and the tight heat of Bucky's body conspire, and T'Challa comes undone himself, murmuring _isithandwa_ and _uthando lwam_ over and over again as he sinks down on top of Bucky, still inside him. They lie there as long as they can, quiet, until duty calls and T'Challa can no longer delay getting to work.

If Bucky knows what he's said, he gives no indication. He lies on his back, loose-limbed, and watches with sleepy eyes as T'Challa dresses. He looks like the picture of temptation itself, and T'Challa has to look away before he climbs back into bed with him and ravishes him again. He dares another kiss and then goes.

*

There is very little for Sam, Bucky, and Steve to do, and their discomfort with this is palpable. Steve paces back and forth like a caged lion until Bucky asks him to stop, and then he goes to another room to continue pacing. They are men of action, accustomed to taking things into their own hands. T'Challa privately thinks that it probably wouldn't be the worst thing in the world for them to learn a little patience. As much as he agrees with their principles, and although he is a hypocrite for saying so, he does think they need oversight. This was the purpose of the Accords, for all the good it did. If the latest reports are anything to go by, the whole scheme has fallen apart a little.

He invites them to join him for an interrogation. They may well have insight into the motives and operations of this group of thugs that he and the Dora Milaje do not, and it will make them feel less edgy. The four of them occupy a room behind a large pane of one-way glass. On the other side, handcuffed to a table, is one of the mercenaries, one who seemed to be slightly higher ranking than the others they've interviewed.

Uzochi, the woman in charge of the interrogation, looks tired and drawn. T'Challa doubts that she's slept. She has most likely been interviewing since the men were brought in at first light.

"Wire transfers," she says, pulling up the information on the surface of the one-way glass as it darkens. "Accounts in the Caymans, Switzerland. The mercenaries were all paid from a single account-- stupid, really, as it makes it that much easier to follow the money."

"Unless they want us to find them," T'Challa muses. "The assassination attempt failed, but they must know that I would be personally involved in any response."

"Maybe it wasn't an attempt so much as a hook," Bucky murmurs. "Maybe they've got a larger game."

"Have you learned anything of use?" T'Challa asks Uzochi.

"That would depend on what you consider 'of use,' beloved. We are still sifting through the records to determine ownership, but I imagine the account is a secret CIA slush fund for illicit operations. The balance is in the hundreds of millions, with dozens of transactions every day, in and out. It belongs to a shell company, which is most likely a front for another company, and so forth. It will take us some time to track down the real owner, but we _will_ find them."

"And that's what's financing this…" Steve says.

" _Coup d'etat_ ," T'Challa finishes. "Let us call it what it is."

"I can't believe this. No-- I can. It just pisses me off."

"This is far from the first time the United States has attempted to overthrow a foreign government."

"I know," Steve says, scowling.

The muscles in his jaw clench tight, and his lips shrink to a thin line on his face. The moments when his face closes into that expression are one of the few times that Steve is actually a little frightening.

Uzochi closes down the display, and the one-way glass returns to normal.

< _Would you like to handle the interview, beloved?_ > she asks.

< _No, you are far more qualified._ >

Uzochi strides out of the room and a moment later opens the door to the prisoner's room. T'Challa notices the difference in her bearing-- she is polite and demure when speaking to him, but when she walks into the interrogation room, she carries herself taller, her face stony. She carries a file which she sets down on the table across from her prisoner. She does not sit.

"You are Major Dorian Macmillan. Don't look surprised, we've found out a great deal about you since last night. I would like to know what a member of the SAS is doing in Wakanda, in the company of mercenaries and hired killers."

He says nothing.

"Mr Macmillan, it is only a matter of time before we track down the person responsible for orchestrating your utter failure of a mission. A smart man would do himself a favour and talk while he still can."

There's a moment of silence, and then Macmillan looks up at her.

"Better to live one day as a lion than a hundred years as a sheep."

Even from behind, T'Challa can tell Uzochi is rolling her eyes. Mussolini. Really.

"Oh, but you _are_ a sheep, Mr Macmillan. You've been sent on a suicide mission in the one country that has never borne the yoke of colonisation. Make no mistake, they knew you would not survive this. There was never any question that your mission would fail. They always have, and they always will. Invading soldiers once proclaimed themselves a hurricane that would erase Wakanda from the map. We made widows of their wives and orphans of their children. Wakanda fears no one, certainly not a troupe of jackbooted small-time terrorists."

She stalks from one side of the room to the other, and Macmillan's eyes track her every step.

"Hydra agents never allow themselves to be taken alive, with very few exceptions. And yet, you have stayed alive for… six hours. It would seem to indicate that either you are not working for Hydra, or you are not particularly loyal to them. This gives you an opportunity. If you provide us with useful intelligence, we will allow you to be extradited to France or Germany to be tried and sentenced for your crimes. Most countries have abolished the death penalty. Wakanda has not."

Uzochi looks at her watch.

"I'll give you some time to think about it."

She walks out of the room with her file. Sam huffs a breath out.

"Just send the Winter Soldier in there," he says. "That ought to get him talking."

T'Challa shakes his head.

"No. Bucky is not a weapon. Not anymore."

He glances at Bucky. His head is bowed a little, his lips pursed, and it's difficult to read whether he's relieved or whether he would actually like to walk into the interrogation room and smash a huge dent in the steel table. The two are not necessarily mutually exclusive. He looks up. His eyes are haunted, as if he's recalling something horrifying from his past, and suddenly T'Challa regrets bringing him along.

"There's no need for you to stay," he says, looking directly at Bucky.

"I do feel a little useless," Steve says, smiling wryly and still watching Macmillan through the glass.

"Once we confirm that Killmonger is a part of this, we'll be able to move."

"Why not do it now?" Bucky asks.

"Punishment without proof is the short path to tyranny," T'Challa says. "We must be sure, or else Killmonger will become a martyr. He may yet, anyway."

"What kinda name is Killmonger, anyway?" Sam asks.

"Well, Snuffcarcass was taken," Bucky says, and he smiles at the snort of laughter that gets him.

"The Dora Milaje have some training maneouvres today," T'Challa says. "If you like, I can find out if they would be amenable to the three of you coming along."

Bucky meets his eyes again. After a moment of great effort, he speaks.

"Is Nakia playing?"

T'Challa grins.

"She is. Would you prefer to be on her team or opposed?"

Bucky thinks for a moment. He doesn't see the speculative look that Steve gives him.

"Surprise me."

"Come, I'll take you there. But please don't be offended if any of them refuse. They take their wargames very seriously."

T'Challa herds the three of them out of the room. He hears Steve ask, very low and very quiet, "Who's _Nakia?_ "

"Don't start, Rogers," Bucky says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _isithandwa_ translates to darling/sweetheart/etc. and _uthando lwam_ is "my love."
> 
> And yes, Bucky knows what those words mean.


	21. What replication should be made by the son of a king?

A few days after the training exercises, T'Challa informs them that they have an important meeting the next day. In the morning, on his way to the kitchen to make coffee, Bucky spots a garment bag hanging in the living room. He squints and walks back into his bedroom.

"Is that your suit?"

"No, it's yours."

Bucky pauses.

"… why?"

T'Challa looks up from the report he's reading in bed.

"I told you, we have an important meeting today. You certainly can't wear your usual attire, accessible though it may be."

T'Challa grins at him a little. Bucky sighs.

"I'm starting to feel like a kept man."

"It sounds as though that breaks your heart in two."

Bucky gives him a dirty look.

"When did you learn sarcasm?"

"I've always had the capacity, but it's considered extremely rude here." He gives Bucky a meaningful look. "I try to reserve it for when it's well deserved."

Bucky snorts and returns to the kitchen. He starts the coffee and then can't resist the urge to take the suit out of its bag. It's deep blue, some shiny fabric that Bucky can't identify. It's expensive, that much is clear.

"Seems unnecessary," he says when he hears T'Challa enter the room. "Though I guess you probably don't have Woolworth's here."

He realizes a moment after he says it that T'Challa will have no idea what he's talking about. He really needs some cultural points of reference that someone besides Steve and other 90-year-olds will understand.

"Try it on, make sure it fits."

His tone is casual-- a little too casual. Bucky raises an eyebrow at him. Still, he can't help a little burst of excitement. He remembers being a snappy dresser, Before. When was the last time he wore something that wasn't cotton jersey or denim? He drops his pyjama pants and puts the suit on, the pressed shirt, the tie, and the shoes-- even a pair of simple cufflinks, because of course. It all fits alarmingly well.

"Have you been taking my measurements in my sleep?" he asks, casting a sly smile at T'challa.

T'Challa smiles back. His eyes track down and up again, and he clearly takes a moment to enjoy the picture before he speaks.

"We did a full body scan before you went into stasis, remember? I just had to send your measurements to the tailor."

Bucky shoots his cuffs and preens a little.

"How do I look?"

He doesn't need T'Challa to tell him he looks good, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want to hear it.

"Respectable-- although you'll look better once you shave."

"You still haven't told me who we're meeting with."

"Technically it's a remote meeting, but it's still very important. We'll be speaking to the President of the United States."

He walks into the kitchen as he tosses out that last part, and Bucky follows him.

"We're _what_?"

T'Challa pours coffee for each of them, puts some bread in the toaster.

"You won't be speaking, but you'll be in the frame, so I do need you to look your best."

"Why…"

"Just face forward and remain composed. That's all you have to do."

T'Challa changes the subject then. According to his report, they haven't found a solid link to Killmonger from the mercenaries, so while T'Challa has innumerable agents spying on him, that's all he can do for the time being. Bucky considers offering his services as a sniper, but T'Challa would never take him up on it. He's the kind of guy who prefers to handle things directly anyway.

At eight a.m. they all convene in T'Challa's office. Steve and Sam are also dressed to the nines, Steve in black and white and Sam in grey. Dayo instructs them to say nothing, no matter what, on pain of some unspecified and therefore more threatening punishment. She's a tiny woman, which somehow makes the threat that much more menacing. She straightens Sam's already straight tie and looks them over with pride. Bucky wonders if she chose the clothes.

It's nearly nine by the time they finish prepping, and then Dayo moves them all into position. Suited and booted, the three of them stand at parade rest behind Nakia and Okoye, who flank T'Challa in his chair.

"What time is it in the States?" Steve asks.

"Two a.m," T'Challa says.

He smiles and turns around as a tech person connects them. The Oval Office appears on an extremely large screen on the wall which Dayo has directed them to look at instead of the actual feed T'Challa's interacting with.

"Your Highness," the President begins.

Bucky thinks he looks a little tired. He resists the urge to smile.

"President Cooper," T'Challa says. "Thank you for agreeing to this meeting, and my apologies for the late hour in America. I'll get right to the point. I know that by now you have received the data my government has sent, which is carefully indexed and cross-referenced with all applicable international and United States law. I have incontrovertible proof that agents of the United States government were responsible for the attempt on my life, most notably Secretary of State Thaddeus Ross. A gesture of good faith and a symbol of your censure, I am formally requesting that you do the following..."

The President pales. Bucky shifts his gaze to a spot on the wall. He won't be able to maintain his composure if the President loses his.

"1. immediately withdraw all US troops and covert operatives from Wakanda, Niganda, Kenya, and Tanzania, including those involved with Operation Nightshade, Operation Plus Sign, and Operation Debutante; as well as Operation Featherweight and Operation Duststorm-- oh excuse me, it would seem that you do not personally have clearance for Featherweight and Duststorm. My apologies."

Someone makes a choking sound. Bucky's reasonably sure that it's Sam, but he doesn't dare look. Sam coughs, clears his throat, and presumably composes himself. Bucky averts his gaze from the screen to a spot on the wall. The last thing he needs is to laugh in the middle of this very serious meeting.

"2. demand the immediate resignation of Secretary of State Thaddeus Ross for reasons which are outlined in the documents we've sent you, including but not limited to his apparent involvement in the attempt on my life;

"3. order an immediate and thorough investigation into all US military operations in Africa, the results of which will be provided to the United Nations."

People are whispering to the President, who presumably has a platoon of lawyers reading over what T'Challa sent him. Bucky wants to see the look on his face, but he doesn't dare pull his eyes away from the spot on the wall he's focused on.

"Will there be anything else, Your Highness?"

"Yes, there's one more thing."

" _Yes_?"

Bucky dares a quick inquiring glance at Steve, who's stone-faced. What else could there possibly be?

"Rogers, Wilson, and Barnes were instrumental in the identification and apprehension of individuals involved in this conspiracy. In recognition of their service, I have named them Ambassadors Extraordinary of Wakanda--"

"Which would grant them diplomatic immunity," the President finishes. "Your Highness, these men have been charged with very serious crimes here--"

"Which means the United States government could still declare them _persona non grata_. And if you do, I will file a memorial with the International Court of Justice based on the documents I've sent you. The initial draft is included. My apologies for the length of the document-- it was unavoidable.

"Let me be clear: I will take any action against these men as an attack on Wakandan sovereignty and treat it as such."

"… understood."

Bucky's trying not to smile, but it's very difficult given the circumstances. He bites the inside of his lip hard enough to taste blood and keeps his teeth there. He doesn't dare look at Steve or Sam. He stares ahead until T'Challa ends the call and sits back in his chair. For a second no one speaks. Then the chair turns around, with T'Challa in it looking very serious. He holds that composure for a moment, then grins. He glances at Sam and Steve; Sam's eyes are bright, and as soon as he sees T'Challa's smiling, he guffaws himself. Steve, on the other hand, is still somber and straight-faced, so Sam quickly straightens up.

T'Challa gets up to shake their hands.

"Gentlemen. I expect you to take your duties very seriously."

"Of course, Your Highness," Steve says, absolutely serious. "I intend to serve the office with diligence and honor."

Bucky nods, and it's a small miracle that he manages to meet T'Challa's gaze without sputtering. For a moment they just look at each other, and then T'Challa's hand is in his, warm and firm.

"Your Highness," he acknowledges, and then returns to parade rest.

"At ease," Steve murmurs. "You assholes."

Sam and Bucky immediately dissolve into snickers.

"Did you see the look on his face?" Sam asks.

"At which part?" Bucky asks. "I think he turned a few different colors. I couldn't look at him, or I would've lost it."

"You two are so childish," Steve says, and then immediately breaks into a grin. " _I_ saw it."

"And Ross?" Bucky asks. "You really think he's gonna fire him?"

T'Challa shrugs.

"I don't think I needed to say it, but it felt good to do so. I suspect that quite a lot of people in Washington will be vacating offices, after all this. It was sloppy work."

"So you're blackmailing the US government so that we can go back," Bucky says with a wry smile.

T'Challa looks at him, affronted.

"I am not blackmailing anyone. I consider it a _quid pro quo_."

Bucky rolls his eyes.

"So… does this mean we can really go home?" Sam asks.

The roughness in his voice makes Bucky look at him and just as quickly look away. He glances at Steve, who looks just as stricken at the realisation that Sam, unlike them, probably does have a concept of home. Has family. Has friends. People he misses.

"We'll need to wait for everything to be formally agreed upon, signed, and so forth," T'Challa says. "And I certainly would not start packing my bags just yet. But yes. Once they agree to it, you'll be able to go home."

Sam swallows hard, and he takes a step forward to throw his arms around T'Challa in a hug. T'Challa hesitates, surprised, then hugs him back, patting him on the shoulder. Bucky grins at him.

"Sorry, Your Highness," Sam says when he's let go. "I just miss my mom."

His eyes are bright, and Bucky has to look away again. Steve claps him on the shoulder and smiles.

"I understand," T'Challa says. "You are, of course, welcome to stay here as long as you like."

His gaze flickers to Bucky and then back to the others. Steve steps up to shake his hand again.

"I don't know how to thank you, Your Highness" he says.

"Thanks are not required. I suspect Wakanda will need all the allies it can get in the United States after this."

"I do like the sound of _Ambassador Wilson_ ," Sam says. "Do I get an office?"

T'Challa laughs.

"Certainly. We can discuss the details later on. There will be documents to sign, and I have some suggestions for meetings once you return to the States."

"I wasn't told there would be _meetings_ ," Steve groans.

Bucky rolls his eyes and flicks him on the ear. Steve swats at him.

"What about you, Buck?"

He scratches the nape of his neck. The concept of _home_ is difficult for him to think about. Seventy-odd years in and out of torture chambers, and the last couple of years bouncing all over Europe, he never really got the chance to think of anywhere as home. His days in Brooklyn with Steve are a half-remembered dream. He's not sure he wants to go back to the States at all, but he doesn't want to tell Steve that.

"I don't know," he says. "Brooklyn's still there, right?"

He hopes his voice sounds more enthusiastic than he feels. Steve claps one hand to his heart and the other on Bucky's shoulder. He sighs heavily.

"Technically, yes, it's still there. It's. Changed. We'll… we'll talk about it later."

"Touchy subject," Sam whispers.

Steve gives his shoulder a squeeze.

"What do you say, Buck? Ready to go home?"

Bucky looks over Steve's shoulder at T'Challa, deep in conversation with Dayo, probably planning their next PR move. This will stir up no end of shit, and Bucky's actually a little worried about T'Challa and what might happen now that he's explicitly defied the US government. They're not accustomed to that, they don't like it, and Bucky knows from painful experience just what they're willing to do about it. T'Challa glances at him and smiles. Bucky smiles back.

"Not just yet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a silly shippy fic that got out of hand. These are some of the places it took me.
> 
> 1\. [boxing](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boxing_styles_and_technique)  
> 2\. [♥](http://marvel.wikia.com/wiki/Heart-Shaped_Herb)  
> 3\. [iboga](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tabernanthe_iboga)  
> 4\. [boxing](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Switch_hitter#Boxing)  
> 5\. [names](http://www.behindthename.com/names/usage/african)  
> 6\. [russian](http://www.justrussian.com/blog/russian-ways-of-address)  
> 7\. [russian](http://mylanguages.org/russian_phrases.php)  
> 8\. [treason](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Treason#United_States)  
> 9\. [insanity defense](https://www.law.cornell.edu/wex/insanity_defense)  
> 10\. [law](https://www.law.cornell.edu/uscode/text/18/4241)  
> 11\. [guns](http://www.imfdb.org/wiki/Captain_America:_The_Winter_Soldier)  
> 12\. [cheese sandwich](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cheese_sandwich)  
> 13\. [noogies](http://forums.gardenweb.com/discussions/2224617/the-demise-of-good-english-and-spelling-things-correctly)  
> 14\. [noogies](http://english.stackexchange.com/questions/142716/where-does-noogie-come-from)  
> 15\. [noogies](http://www.nytimes.com/1996/12/29/magazine/the-noogie-rebellion.html?_r=0)  
> 16\. [dutch rub](https://idiomation.wordpress.com/2011/08/31/dutch-rub/)  
> 17\. [making time](http://www.dictionary.com/browse/make-time-with-someone)  
> 18\. [slang](http://www.paper-dragon.com/1939/slang.html)  
> 19\. [slang](https://www.miskatonic.org/slang.html)  
> 20\. [diplomats](http://www.state.gov/documents/organization/176174.pdf)  
> 21\. [xhosa](https://books.google.com/books?id=EQs7uKv_k3UC&pg=PA1&lpg)  
> 22\. [xhosa](http://www.unisa.ac.za/free_online_course/)  
> 23\. [xhosa](http://www.everyculture.com/wc/Rwanda-to-Syria/Xhosa.html)  
> 24\. [tumblr](http://fearlessinger.tumblr.com/post/144597478416/no-you-move)  
> 25\. [comics](http://www.multiversitycomics.com/reviews/black-panther-1/)  
> 26\. [wakanda](http://zetsubonna.tumblr.com/post/120856995715/on-wakanda%20)  
> 27\. [wakanda](http://www.popsci.com/black-panther-marvel-civil-war-technology-wakanda%20)  
> 28\. [wakanda](https://happinessisntapotato.tumblr.com/post/145376843494/copperbadge-who-theh-e-ll-is-bucky%20)  
> 29\. [afrofuturism](http://comicsalliance.com/afrofuturism-black-panther/)  
> 30\. [Sam's rank](http://forum.tthfanfic.org/index.php?topic=8768.0)  
> 31\. [geography](http://worldofblackheroes.com/2010/08/30/wakanda-location/)  
> 32\. [bao](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bao_\(mancala_game\))  
> 


	22. Deleted scene: The cat will mew, and every dog will have his day*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Context: Bucky has been teasing T'Challa while they're sparring, took it a little too far, and made him angry.

Bucky lies there, numb, as T'Challa stalks out of the room without another word. Given how scrupulously polite he usually is, Bucky can only assume this means he's furious. He goes back to his bungalow to shower. He puts the shower on the hardest setting and loses himself in the white noise for a while.

He dries his hair-- it takes a lot less time now-- and then wraps the towel around his hips as he walks out of the bathroom. He freezes. Someone else is here. Bucky turns around, and a fraction of a second later, T'Challa has him pinned to the bed. Bucky stares up at him, wide-eyed.

" _You_ ," T'Challa growls.

Bucky swallows hard. T'Challa is also freshly showered. He smells of soap and shea butter, but he also smells faintly of sex. Before Bucky can say anything, T'Challa kisses him hard, still holding him, and something inside Bucky wobbles and collapses. He lets his arms go slack, kissing back but also perfectly content to let T'Challa hold him here. It sends a little thrill up the back of his neck. Bucky pulls up one knee and rolls his hips. If he weren't hard already, the friction of T'Challa's jeans on the other side of the towel would be enough to do it. They grind against each other, quiet except for quickening breath and the wet sound of their mouths, until the towel around Bucky's hips starts to slide off. T'Challa throws it aside.

He presses against Bucky, still fully clothed. A thousand different points of friction, texture, warmth. T'Challa's thigh slides in between Bucky's legs, rocks against him. The rasp of denim is harsh against his inner thighs, his cock. Bucky moans a little. T'Challa sucks and bites at his neck, and Bucky bites his lip as his eyes roll back in his head. He wants to say something, but all that comes out is a whimper that gets lost in T'Challa's mouth.

T'Challa rises up long enough to pull his shirt off and goes back to work. His skin is hot against Bucky's. The muscles in his forearms stand out, his hands tight around Bucky's wrists. T'Challa pauses, moving back off the bed. Bucky's aching now, hoping to god that this isn't some sort of cruel joke.

"Don't move," T'Challa says.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

T'Challa shoves his jeans and underwear down, and Bucky sucks in a deep breath through his nose. His eyes take in everything, the planes of muscle on his body, the square set of his shoulders, the slight dip in his back above his spectacular ass. His thighs, dear god. He climbs back on top of Bucky, more fluid now.

"Nothing to say?" he murmurs.

"Ngh," is all Bucky can manage.

T'Challa's breath moves over his throat and shoulder, his lips maddeningly close. Bucky turns his head to try to catch them, but T'Challa pulls away with a wicked little smile. His eyes are huge and dark, gleaming. His shoulders heave a little. Bucky's tongue curls over his front teeth to touch his lip. T'Challa leans down to close his mouth over it, sucks and bites at Bucky's lower lip. His hard-on presses into Bucky's stomach, lies alongside his own. Bucky shifts his hips to get a little friction, and T'Challa's thighs tighten around him, holding him still. The restriction only makes him buck his hips harder. He can't help wondering if T'Challa plans to make him come like this, or if he'll draw back and leave Bucky with the most serious case of blueballs he's had in eighty years.

T'Challa takes his cybernetic arm and pulls, rolls him over onto his stomach. Bucky sucks in a hissing breath at having friction against his cock again. He rocks his hips against the mattress. T'Challa slaps him on the ass. It's such a shock that Bucky stops moving. He wonders if there's a handprint. Hopes so. Behind him, out of sight, T'Challa is doing something that he can't quite figure out. Not until T'Challa starts to knead the muscle of his ass with one hand while the other presses a finger gently but inexorably into his ass. He moans.

"Oh god…"

Bucky buries his face in the bedcovers. He pushes his ass up and back into the slick friction of T'Challa's finger. It makes him feel sluttish, but he's past caring. T'Challa waits, almost too long, and then adds another finger, then a third. Bucky bites down on the urge to scream. His heart is hammering, his body taut. He wants to say _please_ but can't make the word come out. T'Challa fingerfucks him, slowly, until Bucky goes liquid, like molten metal. He whines in the back of his throat.

T'Challa withdraws, and he groans at the loss. He's tempted to plead and beg. Would T'Challa like that? He thinks so. When T'Challa pulls on his arm again, he rolls over bonelessly onto his back. His cock is throbbing, desperate for touch. His right hand creeps down the bed, and T'Challa grabs it, holds it down.

"Don't you dare," he purrs.

He settles himself between Bucky's thighs, his cock hard and wrapped in a condom.

"Oh god," Bucky repeats.

He swallows hard. T'Challa pulls up his knees, and he trembles as the head of T'Challa's dick nudges up against his ass. He wills himself to relax. Slowly, inexorably, T'Challa penetrates him with the same cruel patience he used to work him open. It seems to take forever and not last long enough. T'Challa's hips rest against his ass. Bucky looks up at him, helpless.

"I wanted to see you," T'Challa murmurs.

"Jesus…"

T'Challa fucks him slowly, almost too slowly, while Bucky lies back and loses his mind. His eyes roll up. He whimpers low in the back of his throat. T'Challa drapes Bucky's knees over his elbows and pushes deeper.

"FUCK!"

Bucky gives over to it completely, his hands caught in his hair to keep them occupied. T'Challa watches him intently, hips rocking against him, his cock pushing up into Bucky with measured care. His eyelashes flutter. He comes in close, thrusts a little harder.

"You look gorgeous," T'Challa whispers. "I wanted to watch you while I fuck you."

Bucky moans. He's not sure he's ever heard T'Challa say that word before. It makes his skin tingle. He finds his voice again as T'Challa quickens his pace.

"Oh… fuck… please, do it, oh god, do me, fuck me, goddamn, ah…"

T'Challa lets his head drop and breathes heavily on the damp skin of Bucky's neck. So much for the shower. Bucky's right hand slips from his hair and moves before he can think about it. He closes it into a fist at his side. T'Challa leans in and whispers.

"Now you can. I want to see you come."

Bucky bites his lip as he closes his hand around his cock. He thumbs the head, smooths the wetness down the shaft and moans much louder than he meant to as he jerks himself off. T'Challa's hips slap against his ass in counterpoint, and the profanities ease up into a higher register. It's fucking glorious. There is nothing else in the world but his aching cock, T'Challa inside him up to the hilt and starting to make quiet sounds of his own. He opens his eyes and looks down at Bucky, waiting. Bucky swallows hard. His hand tightens around his dick, and just as he peaks, T'Challa goes back to fucking him hard. He loses the ability to speak. He has no breath to do it with. His body locks up and he comes with a broken noise, hot on his chest and stomach. His body clenches around T'Challa's cock, dragging a quiet moan from him. T'Challa buries his face in Bucky's neck and loses it. He gasps into Bucky's ear and clutches Bucky's hips. He thrusts again, one more time, and comes hard. Bucky can feel it. He bites his lip. T'Challa rests for a moment on top of him, breathing hard. He lifts his head to look at Bucky, then lets his eyes close again while his body finishes shaking. Bucky puts his arms around him, pulls him in close. They kiss, wet and slow. T'Challa rests his forehead against Bucky's. He kisses down Bucky's throat and pulls out, leaving Bucky feeling abruptly empty.

He lies there, limp, as T'Challa gets up and disappears into the bathroom. He's not sure he could move even if he was inclined to. And he isn't inclined to. T'Challa returns with a warm washcloth. The texture of it on Bucky's oversensitive skin makes him hiss through his teeth. T'Challa wipes him down, steps back into the bathroom to toss the washcloth, and then comes back to sink into his arms. T'Challa's fingers tangle in his hair, tugging a little, and Bucky makes a pleased sound, head tipped to the side. T'Challa kisses his throat and rests his head on Bucky's shoulder.

For a while Bucky lets himself drift, dozing and waking. He wakes up to find T'Challa looking at him.

"Thought you said that wasn't gonna happen again," he murmurs.

"It shouldn't have," T'Challa replies. "You are a very bad influence."

Bucky grins.

"So they tell me."


End file.
